it's a california sunrise on a knuckle of iron
that snatches my breath in the early morning
the jeweler's eyes are shrewd; unmoved
by the romanticism in buying parisian metal
it is her hand, cloaked in cotton circling the band
the way I have on nights I was drunk and looking
to create the imperfections she means
to hammer out. a mastercraft,
to work with your hands --
true magic to bend a thing unyielding to fit

but even to a stranger, this was meant for you.


The naked landscape of your back in the light of the morning stills my breath. I want to press my mouth against all of my favorite places to wake you but I know I'll be late. I tell you, instead, not to move. I tell you I'll be back with breakfast and I'm not lying. I'm just not telling every part of the truth.

When I meet the jeweler, she strikes me as a woman who is hard to impress. Her hands are small but grip mine tightly in a greeting I translate as elation for business. The lilt of her voice, however, makes me wonder if this is how she feels when she sets diamonds. It is joyous and warm despite the sharpness of her eyes. She is not at all what I expected, but if there is one thing that I have learned over this year it's not to expect anything.

When she takes me to the table where the ring is nearly finished, I can feel my heart hammer inside of my chest. It was difficult for me to explain the reasoning behind such a simple band for an engagement. Somewhere along the line, yours became mine. We wear one another's clothes so it's natural for her to ask me to try on the ring but I decline. This is the only thing I want to be solely yours. The inscription on the interior is exactly as I had wanted it and it takes me a minute to collect myself without openly weeping.

She settles the ring in a velvet lined bag and wraps it in simple brown paper. I pay for it in cash and thank her again. I wonder how many hundreds of rings she's made for this exact purpose. Does she know the weight that's put into the metal? I tuck it into my pocket and walk to the bakery for breakfast. I remove my coat and ask the baker for an unusual request and he obliges. The two inch tear on the inside of my jacket close to the zipper is enough for me to repair.

When I return to you, you're still under sleep's spell. I know you'll hear me and stir completely so I hurry to tuck the paper fold of the ring in its bag into the inside of the hole in my jacket. I know we packed a sewing kit, so after you've sat up and started eating, I ask you which suitcase its in and tell you I have to repair it. You offer to do the work for me and I kiss you to stop myself from telling you why.

Even as my heart beats in a hummingbird pattern against my sternum, the pulse is the same. Not yet. Not yet.

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