met yours in amber sunlight on the browned field where our bodies became lovers before our souls. I betrayed you, you said, told them every detail of our insurrectionists’ affair. And blamed you for it all. As if I hadn’t done the same, speaking through pain like some untried teen-aged poet going on about the most common events. I even begged and hoped for you to suffer. But that was not my real burden. Even as our ghosts parted, sunset fading as the snow began, I enacted my betrayal once again: I didn’t say that I still love you.