Tryst

My friend suggested the word, tryst, for my next poem. Here it is:

Tryst

“O, why don't you trust me?”

The young man asks me:

A handsome young man,

A powerful young man,

The young man who loves me.

I look into his eyes:

Piercing, intense,

Imploring brown eyes.

My own reflection,

In those pained brown eyes.

I look around;

A garden of shadows,

Of noisy crickets,

And buzzing mosquitos.

“This tryst is our last.”

I say softly, as guilt fills me:

The guilt of resignation

The guilt of dread

The guilt of love.