The small, black box sleeps
on the dresser where other
black boxes have before.
When she leaves for work,
he keeps his eyes shut for
thirty seconds more, until
the lights shadow the wall
and he knows she’s gone.
He uses hands to feel the
corners, smooth top, lift
the lid. The routine is just
to break in the wedding
band, only because he
rarely wears jewelry, and
cold titanium is calm water
so light he floats into their
future: a baby grabbing his
finger, eyes closed, finding
safety in warm, uneven skin
then the ring’s coolness,
and a sleeping baby smiling.
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