it was nothing, he told himself,
nothing, not his fault. misunderstood intentions,
misread words. too many long nights of wrestling
with unseen things. the weight of expectation
was too heavy for either to bear, and there was no way
for them to bear it together. he kept telling himself that

all the way through to the fraud and the agony
of delivering the news that he was leaving.
though he thought he’d let her down gently, so gently,
she walked away stunned,
undead, red with the betrayal.

but afterward he bulged with guilt he wouldn’t admit
was there, and when the blood had cleared
he ignored the forensics,
even though that was enough to explain everything
if he had believed in the science.
he kept telling himself that it was nothing,
only nothing, even though the weapon was his,
even though the fragments matched his weapon, even though
everyone could see the splatter all over him
when he stepped into the light.