I hate warm nights;
they remind me of you,
and the truth
of love and cruelty.
How cold,
how dead inside.
I loved a woman made of stone.

It was insincerity to you,
a kindness,
but each time you would speak
a piece of me
would break away and die.
And before a week was over
you had eaten half my soul,
and made sure
that I was absolutly
broken.

I lost my life in those nights,
to the new found hatred
I kept deep down for you.

Just like I said,
"The truth of love and cruelty."