by Felix Jung
A girl who loved me once, once bought a silver
ring for me. She purchased two of them, identical,
and said “Let’s wear them, just the two of us.”
Each time our hands collided, fingers intertwined,
I swear I felt a spark. I’d like to think she kept
her ring and took it with her, when she left. Of course
I kept ahold of mine, the same as how I kept her letters,
notes, her photographs. Some nights, I hold it to the light
to nudge my memory, but only see how dull and faded it’s
become. And when I work it on my finger, pushing it
in place, I feel its cold, its bite against the skin – this history,
this piece of me that once upon a time, felt right, and fit.
