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Description
  She has taken my hours. That in which you lied through sugared lips.
  Ones I thought so secret, that only you and I could savour. These minutes in which understanding and trust and love merged into one. These hours, that in the darkness held our intentions and our future.
And now she owns them.

  If not by force then by essence alone. She possesses these moments, our hours of meaning, and she has stolen what was meant for us alone.
I feel this betrayal in my heart. I feel its stealth in its chambers, the swindle that has taken place. When you say “my woman”, who are you speaking of? Does she rob me of even this, that I do not own this favour hence? If only two nights before, my name escaped your lips in fervent whispers and if just two nights before the sweet moans of your pleasure were for me and mine only—who then is she to earn them? For in these hours, I became what you needed. Your confidant, your lover, your friend. Who is she, I ask, to steal from me this pleasure of your affections?
And I did weep at its loss, sorrow fell upon me as the winter does upon the earth and all fields so lovingly tended lay to waste, harvest ruined. So has she ruined me. And in my darkest hour may I say this, that never has there been a greater love than that given to you through me. Never has it faltered, dimmed and outed. Forever, truly, I will weep for you yet and the loss of something so true. And why not, when so often love found in lust’s house is nothing but that of fixation and infatuation, a dangerous elixir for all men. But still, though my heart lay in a cold pit, forever will my love be for you and always it is your right to claim.
Just answer me this, my sweet. If it is my heart you walk away from, and no longer desire its affections, why come to me for comfort and suckle my advice and my admiration as though you have not found such to sate your thirst in days? Could not she do the same, and comfort the same, and you be as satisfied? It seems odd to the eye of a lover to seek another for such simple things, when you’ve denounced them so profusely and thrice denied such charity as you seek now. Could it be, in fact, that the lies you spoke of to me you have conceived as lies to yourself also?
  And if this is true, and that you yearn as much for me as I you, and your affections do not truly lie dormant beneath chasms of deceit and a web of steeled ignorance, ignorance and refusal to accept their presence…
…have her hours been a lie also?

Description
  She has taken my hours. That in which you lied through sugared lips.
  Ones I thought so secret, that only you and I could savour. These minutes in which understanding and trust and love merged into one. These hours, that in the darkness held our intentions and our future.
And now she owns them.

  If not by force then by essence alone. She possesses these moments, our hours of meaning, and she has stolen what was meant for us alone.
I feel this betrayal in my heart. I feel its stealth in its chambers, the swindle that has taken place. When you say “my woman”, who are you speaking of? Does she rob me of even this, that I do not own this favour hence? If only two nights before, my name escaped your lips in fervent whispers and if just two nights before the sweet moans of your pleasure were for me and mine only—who then is she to earn them? For in these hours, I became what you needed. Your confidant, your lover, your friend. Who is she, I ask, to steal from me this pleasure of your affections?
And I did weep at its loss, sorrow fell upon me as the winter does upon the earth and all fields so lovingly tended lay to waste, harvest ruined. So has she ruined me. And in my darkest hour may I say this, that never has there been a greater love than that given to you through me. Never has it faltered, dimmed and outed. Forever, truly, I will weep for you yet and the loss of something so true. And why not, when so often love found in lust’s house is nothing but that of fixation and infatuation, a dangerous elixir for all men. But still, though my heart lay in a cold pit, forever will my love be for you and always it is your right to claim.
Just answer me this, my sweet. If it is my heart you walk away from, and no longer desire its affections, why come to me for comfort and suckle my advice and my admiration as though you have not found such to sate your thirst in days? Could not she do the same, and comfort the same, and you be as satisfied? It seems odd to the eye of a lover to seek another for such simple things, when you’ve denounced them so profusely and thrice denied such charity as you seek now. Could it be, in fact, that the lies you spoke of to me you have conceived as lies to yourself also?
  And if this is true, and that you yearn as much for me as I you, and your affections do not truly lie dormant beneath chasms of deceit and a web of steeled ignorance, ignorance and refusal to accept their presence…
…have her hours been a lie also?