The Missive of the Missing Finger

White, as a sheet.

Formerly known as paper.

Contract. Addendum. A formation of the verbal ladder.

Long since held, is the band where we both gather.

Crippling is its weight, both in the matter.

Where we shall gather and say our vows,

healthy life goes down, down down.

And sometimes, I might retire that heavy old band.

Not because marriage is through,

but because of the heaviness in my hand.

And so I can't write, so I can't type... So I might... writhe a little more.

Carpal tunnel is a bitch, but I can't take it no more.

And so... I write this missive to the one so named,

the one who gave wedding bands a place where my finger falls further towards the grave.