The constant need to see you.
The relief I feel when I do.
The countless hours I spend
Staying awake trying to destroy it all.

And yet I embrace it, every single time.
Regardless of how much I've never forgotten.
Nothing describes this.

I loathe you.
Not love.
Loathe.

Two people couldn't possibly be as far away from the consoling, rooting, butterfly inducing swelling that the closet lovers receive.

Yet how far away, really, are they?
Loathe, And Love?
If I feel the need to go out of my way to write anything regarding metaphorical dirt with such resentful passion.
How is that not similar to the most cliché of Love Poems?

Nothing. Nothing can describe Loathe, against Love.

Nothing Describes This.