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.