Corner of Diamond and Dust
Fingers, honored in anniversary, linger
in anticipatory hover over ribboned box.
Does he love me?
Does he love me not?
They cannot stop the childishly compulsive
repetitious rhyme from repeating. In the background,
breath is held as bow tentatively begins to come
undone. Lid, inevitably removed, finds no karat
sparkle. A smile is faked as mental inventory begins
in preparation of packing, the bags already waiting
under her side of the bed.