How to Starve and Live to Talk About It

I miss you.
I hate you.
I hate missing you.
I miss hating you.

Nothing is real.
So is everything.

I am now just a starving artist,
in the realest sense this time around.
I see it now more than I ever did before.

Because, I now consume only the ashes.
Of our cremated vows.

That really is starving.

And I am an artist.

And I hate (miss) you.