I could see,
at the time,
the hurt she felt inside.
The river of betrayal breaking
the banks of her eyes,
the guilt in mine.
We sat in a bar,
actors in a drama,
unfolding.
I told her,
there was someone else.
A glass smashed,
dropped by distant hands.
The sharp hard tears,
swept and thrown away
by a bored boy with a broom.
I told her,
I was sorry.
Chanting the word over
and over again.
A charm to ward off the misery,
but it was just a word to her.
Empty of comfort.
A thorn of sentiment.
I told her,
I didn’t mean to.
I told her,
It just ... happened.
Her head was bowed,
as if praying for a soul.
Maybe mine? Maybe hers?
She had been hurt before.
Not by me, another me.
She must have felt cursed.
She lifted her head,
eyes like the rain
on the window behind her.
She told me,
‘I’m pregnant’.
She ran out the door.
I never saw either of them again.
