I searched for a ring
that I wanted to give you.
I was so proud to find
something so beautiful.

You said it should be
bigger and called it a bugger
saying, "You got ripped off."

We exchanged them at the altar anyway.
Immediately mine started to tarnish.

I wore mine, until I was informed,
"I am just living here..." You lived
just like you said,"... don't consider
me married to you."

When you left, I hung that ring up.
Each time I walked past it, I could
see just how tarnished it had become.

Some shine still came through, caused
by the scuffs of my labors. 

You said... 

"You will never be able to give
another woman what you gave me." 

You're right. 

"You will never have another woman
like I was."
 
You got that damn right.
"No woman, 'Will ever, even like you!'" 

I'm sorry, you are wrong.
 
The ring never left a mark on my finger;
but bruised and battered, I thought it
indelible upon my soul.

When a woman can bear to look at me...
...With every sparkling eye my way.
...Every smile.
...Warm, lilting voice or greeting
...or spends a little time with me.
...Maybe with just a little passing thought.

With every passing day that I
walk by that ring. The tarnish
wears off just a little more.


With the warmth of my soul,
 love from them and a gentle soft
 rub, that ring will once again be
 nice and shiny. With the right one,
 ready to be put back on that finger.

The marks will always remain on my soul,
but once again, with a little loving
touch, it will become a very alluring
patina from them and God
to enjoy and cherish.