five hundred and ninety: Before Our Radio Silence
Our first kiss was so sweet,
not even the strange aftermath
of our broken love
could take that away,
nor make the song I listened to on repeat
for that entire evening even an octave less perfect.
The irony of this poem
is the same irony as that song.
A man singing to a woman that she is less beautiful
than she thinks she is,
and a woman who preens knowingly,
The irony is that song, of all songs,
is not a love song.
The irony is this poem, of all poems,
is not a love poem.