Our love is a vortex of souls,
Tormented, tattered, torn.
Recreated, rejuvenated,
Then tortured once again.

Nothing but whispers of melancholy,
Depression, despair, disaster.
Menacing, morbid
Are our nights spent in the dirt.

I hate you, yet I love you
Sincerely, silently, secretly.
Forlorn, forgotten,
Your smile, like an illusion of the past.