'This message was deleted.'
That was the last thing I read from you. Having come home to find nothing of you left, besides your ring on the kitchen table. I sat at that table for sometime, before deciding to write you a simple one-worded message, 'Why?' 'This message was deleted, was the response.' Deleted? How can you delete a memory? How can years be simply, deleted? That ring sat on the kitchen table, in the same spot, for exactly three months, with hope that its orignal owner would come back to claim it.
Three months and one day later, I decide to call your bluff. I take my ring off, placing it side by side to yours, and go to work. On my way home, there is an excitement and anticipation that I have not felt for some time. I rush to put the key in the door. And as I turn the lock, I expect something new, something different, some kind of change. But the truth, still remains the truth. There the two rings sit. Side-by-side.
We see each other out and about, neither one acknowledging the other. Each time, walking in our separate ways - which is exactly how it should be. I have no bad feelings towards you. None. Time, as they say, does heal wounds - old and new. And you know what? I still wear my ring, taking it off only and when I sit down at the kitchen table.
