They say of many things—statistics,
prisoners, friends, the truth—if you
torture them enough, they will yield.
Not me. I was the first to tell you I loved you,
long before you said the same to me—
long before you were I sure. Before I was.
I was the first, in a cruel twist of traditional
to say ‘I do.’ You said it too, and I know your
arm wasn’t twisted up behind your back.
You were holding my hand, yours in mine
and mine in yours, looking now as it did then,
except for the engagement ring that is not
the one I gave you, and except for the missing
golden band. Mine you took off. I won’t torture
myself by guessing when his will go on. I yield.