You carry,
the same carmex,
for years.
There’s a ring,
in your pocket,
that isn’t,
for me.
Is that,
considered sad,
or is it,
just the way,
it is.
Maybe it’s,
just a little,
bittersweet,
in how,
it’s ironic.
I stumble,
I fall,
right into,
your hands.
But that’s,
just the way,
I am.