There comes a time when every heroine
notices a steady decline in heavy
courting and the offering
of lost rings.
Usually, a tell-tale sign
is the lack of talk of gifts.
I keep bouncing up and down
by my door front
expecting the mailman
to bring empty slides of film.
Giddy with the plausibility
of what could’ve been—
circus performers juggling fireballs and walking
on scratchy rope—
choking on trapezes.
Isn’t that what we do?
Walk on eggshells as a party trick,
make rings disappear.
Drop them in the back of my throat
where swords should fit.
They’ll appear every time,
under the radiator as a surprise,
transient corridors will lead me
to a begging conclusion.
I find out that your lips are wax.
Parting ways becomes a sport,
rusty fingers rotating
silver bands that leave skin green,
which one of us then will flip a coin,
lean in first and risk chipping teeth?