I pulled a piece of string
from my sleeve,
watched it float to the ground,
collecting itself into a small circle.

The ring reminded me of days past
when I thought that was what I wanted-
that ring.
How odd
that such an ordinary string
on such an arbitrary day
could teach me about myself
in one split second,
pointing out that the ring
was never what I wanted,
never what I needed.

The wind blew the flowers around me
and tossed up my hair
yet the ring remained,
stagnant,
unmoved,
a praxis,
like the boy who still hoped for the promise
of a ring.

So I collected my things
and rose from my spot between those two Hydrangea bushes,
stepped over the ring
and continued on my way,
movement from the
staleness of monogamy
to the chaos of something more.

Always moving
to something more.