Despite the last few months of conversation,
sifting through the wreckage,
things came up between them
which made him sick to hear.
He had confessed and admitted to everything,
which made it easier to bear.
Allowed her to speak in cold terms of how he had hurt her
Although she was incensed by his betrayal,
the years between them
lent things a degree of equanimity
What hurt her the most
Was the other woman wasn’t even that attractive
Which stung him a little
As the truth always did
Swelling membraneous regrets
From the anaphylaxis of betrayal
But she had desired him
And, together he tells her
How he loved her more than the other woman
Embarrassed but stronger for confessing
How miserable it had made him
So fleeting a pleasure
Such sustained miseries to pay for
He does not expect sympathy
His weaknesses left their mark on him
But he’s a better man
(Or he’s trying to be)
What stuck in his throat
Was she had gone to his house
Told his former wife all this
And never
Even gave
Her real name
(It meant ‘free one’)
But he knew how much,
In the end, it had cost him,
Almost,
But not quite
Everything
Were he a preaching man,
He would caution against such vagaries
But he lacks the faith
To convince anyone beyond his own halting steps
Towards truth and if no one else thanks him,
He’s grateful to never think, speak or act
In such ways as to draw such things
To him again.
