Rings Around

I wore the ring a good two years longer than anyone wanted me to. I was told to let it go, drop it in a bin, maybe get some money for it, or throw it in whoever's face in retribution. Easy words. This ring was a symbol of my accomplishment. Inevitably, yes, it became a record of my failure. But I worked damn hard for it. Having to pass off something you've earned and fought for only to realize it was a blood-spattered white flag for some time now is no easy matter indeed.

But the ring came off quickly for a moment. I hesitated. For months at a time, when this would occur, should a bit of dirt or lipstick or hair product should see its way into an improper crevice between my skin and the metal, I would casually remove it, rinse, and reattach my diploma of love everlasting.

In the moments of displaced passion, it never seemed suited to be worn during casual encounters. I would tuck it in a sock, or my knapsack by the door, better left off my mind during flatward interactions.

But this time, slip. It clang against the pavement. I pocketed it, not at the moment concerned. I considered for a moment. I could it put it back on, regain my moment of "that's pretty, isn't it? The world is shit, isn't it." But I left it in my pocket nearly a night's length.

Naked, uncertain, and a little shy, I am walking around town. And I am alone.