The ring, The rumor

He gave me a ring once.
Handmade. Warm. Like it believed in promises I never asked for.

I set it down on the windowsill.
Not out of anger. Not regret either.
More like placing a fragile thing where it can no longer expect anything from me.

He waited at the door too long.
I told him to go.
My voice was quiet. My heart was quiet too.

Some people think that means I'm cold.
Maybe I am.
Or maybe I just learned that not everything offered is meant to be kept.

The ring still catches the light sometimes.
It shines like a memory that refuses to become sentimental.