She moved her hand
To tuck in the strands of auburn hair
That had escaped the
Tangles of a perfect French braid.
It was the same hand
That had lent him pencils before exams,
And notes after class;
That he had held
On friendship’s day
And then again on the valentine’s;
That had waved him off,
And written him several letters.
Unmistakably, same hand.
Even with her back towards him,
He knew it was her.
It had to be her.
A sudden pain rose in his elbows,
A sudden surge,
Melted only by
That glittering rock
In her ring finger.
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