The Ring

You left your coffee ring on my nightstand,

a perfect circle of betrayal

staining the wood we picked out together

at that antique store in Portland.

Four years of Sunday mornings

dissolved in a single conversation—

your voice clinical, rehearsed,

like you'd practiced this ending

in the mirror for weeks.

"I need space," you said,

but what you meant was

you needed space from me,

from the weight of my expectations,

from the future we'd mapped out

in careful detail.

The engagement ring sits heavy

in its velvet box,

a diamond promise

I'll never get to make.

You couldn't even look at it

when I held it out—

four months of secret planning

reduced to awkward silence.

Now I sleep diagonal

across our king-size bed,

trying to fill the crater

you left behind.

Your pillow still smells

like your shampoo,

and I hate that I notice,

hate that I breathe deeper

when I turn toward your side.

Your sister texts me apologies

you're too coward to send yourself.

Your mother unfriended me

on Facebook yesterday—

four years of family dinners

erased with a click.

I found your earring

under the bathroom sink,

the silver hoops I bought you

for our second anniversary.

For a moment I thought

about throwing it away,

but instead I put it

in the junk drawer

next to the spare keys

to a life we'll never share.

They say time heals all wounds,

but they don't mention

how it leaves you raw first,

how every song on the radio

becomes a small violence,

how grocery shopping

becomes a minefield

of your favorite things.

Four years of learning

how you take your coffee,

which side of the bed

you prefer,

the way you scrunch your nose

when you're thinking—

and now I'm supposed

to unlearn it all,

to forget the weight

of your hand in mine,

to pretend I don't still

look for your car

in every parking lot.

You said you loved me

right before you left,

like love was consolation prize

for a broken heart,

like four years meant nothing

if it didn't mean forever.

But I know the truth:

you loved me

until you didn't,

and that's the hardest part—

not that you're gone,

but that somewhere

along the way,

I became someone

you needed to escape from.

The coffee ring is still there,

a perfect circle

of what we used to be.

I should sand it out,

but instead I trace it

with my finger

and remember when

you used to say my name

like it was something

precious.