Sapphire

What remains isn't always precious—but it stays anyway.

I found it in a drawer last spring—
a trinket time forgot to lose—
a sapphire on a silver ring,
still bright, but touched with subtle bruise.

You gave it when the sky was clear,
when nothing felt too far to hold.
We wore the seasons year by year,
then watched each ember flicker cold.

I swore I’d wear it once again,
but found no fire to fit the flame.
Too much had passed between us then—
too much, and neither one to blame.

I keep it now where light is thin,
where even stars forget to shine.
It holds what might have once been kin—
a smaller grief, I called it mine.

You may not think of it at all,
or ever think of me that way.
But something soft, and blue, and small
still fits the hand of yesterday.