Oh, dear.

Well, let’s set things straight:

This is not a love poem– 

although it may sound like one,

Triumphant, even, in retelling.

This is a confession

Made over the slick, stainless 

steel surface of a mesh table

Outside a damp, dimly lit Shake Shack

On an early summer evening.

If only I could take back what

Only I had said, then there would be some

Other ending to the whole, tiresome

Ordeal. But thank God it ended this way. Boy,

Lest I forget what we weathered: our

Own shakespearean tragedy, rewritten for these two gentlemen of

Verona. Still, with perfected

Eyes in hindsight–was it just us, or Madonna?