Dust

He wonders at what cost another betrayal?
After all, there is so much guilt already stored and racked, 

preserved like wine in that chilly cellar. 

Familiar labels attest to provenance and vintage. 

The bitter grapes of pointless affairs, 

doubtless sour to the palate after all these years. 

Yet they were so delightful on the tongue 

when lust and passion first pressed the juice from their fleshy skins.
Far too many bottles of treachery are stretched in countless rows, 

categorised by time and place, half-remembered lovers, 

and half-forgotten summers. 

And proof of sin.
All gathering dust in his dark soul.