There was a ring on my hand

There was a ring on my hand: on the finger fated for vows.

It was there when I ate and slept and dreamt; the sweet chain of shining gold embracing the finger on my hand.

It was there when tears soaked up my cupped palms. When I shoved my shaken heart so it won't miss a pulse.

This finger fated for vows, now naked, now longing for my beloved, still suspects the ring is still there.

The vow is gone. The touch is gone. Only this finger thinks its still warm: the thin line that bound the flesh to the chain; the penumbra of stain.

Sometimes my hand suspects the finger is no longer there.

 

Someone tried to cut the finger thinking my hand will gain its reason back, and finding it persisting, tried to cut my whole hand.