I can feel a storm approaching.
It comes in the guise of a lover's lies;
Favours bought and friendships diced.

But I do not hate him. That much I know. I  am not making you choose.

But I DO hate, and I hate with a passion;
That soft-spoken pillow talk holds greater weight than the anguish you know I've drowned in -
That you would put me through it again because your lover holds your hands
And exaggerates.

I am cold. And my tears are the colour of moonlight.