Her Brutus

The fault is not in our stars, she thought.
It´s time to stab you in the back.
Sunny warm Sunday,
Snowy cold Monday.

The difference is in the trust.
He is not where you were,
But the kiss belongs to him,
And the warmth belongs to her.

Soon, the snow will go,
And the air will dry.
Soon you´ll be forgotten,
And your billowing shade will stop.