Your words raised some hackles
maybe among your family,
but mostly me.
Your sincere betrayal,
a dolorous dispatch.
Yes, sincere,
for you didn’t hide it.
Betrayal, though,
for you violated my trust,
our frugal intimacy,
our tacit moral agreement.
Not your deeds
but my failure,
our failure,
aches in my stomach.
A heartful treason,
the ultimate expression,
consequence
of a collective endeavor,
long undergirded
solely by convenience.
The amortization of
our negative goodwill,
disbalance caused by
our emotional laziness,
needs to be paid
with fortitude,
despaired attempt
to preserve our broken dignity,
our shattered reputation.
Wistfully I dream
of an alternative reality,
where you don’t have to
disrespect yourself,
trying to beguile me
with your newly acquired
sense of victimhood:
a partially true gravamen.
A reality where I don’t miss
the warmth of your presence
and don’t have to lie to myself
to protect the hope,
the cradle of a small seed
I planned to call love
long ago.