In all your Pinterest boards,

engagement rings were emerald.
“I wish I was rich enough
that I’d be trendsetting instead of tacky,”
you told me once, as we browsed
a tarnish-guaranteed Claire’s selection.
 
I’ve always imagined you chucking away
a paintbrush in disdain,
dripping gray paint that couldn’t cover
your colors. Choosing bravado
because you couldn’t have belonging.

Well, I wonder.
When you wear a diamond ring,
will it mean she knows you best?

When she worries about your sinkholes,
does she know to be mindful of the crack?
To beware the depth of the fear
you are oh-so-careful to cover?
To tread carefully, lest you descend?
Or does she still need a traffic cone warning?
My technique is the work of years.
 
Speaking of, two is too short an engagement.
That’s my stone mountain-top out-of-touch take.
Still, I might have married you
if that’s what it took to make a mine.
My holes, too, must be deeper than they appear.