phoenixshadow

A little taste of my writing, true story no less, let me know what you all think.


I shift through papers and garbage alike, finding things to keep, things to throw away, when I come across it. Its pretty, shining, and well designed. It takes me a moment to realize what it is. I know its a ring, but what it means is something that escapes me at first. Its you. Its me, and what we once were. It never fit right, you asked me to measure my fingers during a blistering hot summer's day in Boston, and I even said it was swelled, so anything you buy needs to be a size smaller, but you, as always, did what you think to be best, so instead of resting on the ring finger, it rests on the middle. I hold the small shining piece of metal a moment, contemplatin throwing it away with the other refuge, but I hesitate, I stop, and put it on my finger. I fight a tear back, like I do as I type this, because I have cried too many tears for you, too many times while you did as you pleased. The ring no longer stands for our love, our hope, our dreams. It no longer stands for happiness, for marriage, for a union of two souls. It stands for pain. It stands for heartache, it stands for terrible memories, and it stands for the strength to leave, and move on. I still wear it on my middle finger, letting the warmth leave indentions in my skin, allowing a slight discomfort to take me, to remember you, and to remember the pain and esctasy of saying goodbye.