Ring-Stained Fingers

I wear your rings every chance  I get.

I wear them because they stain my fingers

I have necklaces

they hang heavy around my neck

leaving dark green prints where they lie

twisting down my skin live ivy

chain prints held in time

captured by my very cells

trying to hang on to you.

 

I wear your rings because I lose things.

They fall through the cracks between here and there.

All the physical pieces, every thread of memory,

every stain that came from a story

and was patched with late night or early mornings,

unexpected letters,

emails that might have been to honest to actually send

text messages that say nothing other than

 

I love you.

 

I wear you rings

because everything else slips through my fingers.

Some things can be rebuilt

Some things can be remembered.

 

I never learned what those things were,

so I hold on tight

to what I have.

 

I wear your rings

Because they stain my fingers.

 

So even after I take them off

I can see the shadows of them.

Stained into my skin.

Like it was meant to be there.

Like if I tried hard enough it would never go away.

 

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