You’re not wearing that ring anymore. You had one on a chain; it laid between your breasts — for awhile when I saw you, I had a strange vision of you as Frodo, but your hair’s the wrong color.
And your feet aren’t furry.
Was it the one ring? Did it bind us?
I almost want to ask you for it, but it belonged to me before, not now, and I feel like it would be sacrilege to take that from a dead man’s hand.
I’m not really him, after all, no matter how it would seem whole to me to take it, wear it, and know that you wore its match.
When he fucked you, while you wore it, were you dreaming of me in you?
It sounds such a vulgar question, but I’m not trying to be cruel — I’m only wondering if you could feel me, still, in you.
Can you feel me, now?
All I have are memories, and the imagination of a man who should be a grey-haired grandfather by now, but exists in the prime of his life.
I imagine writing this up for you, but I know when the alcohol haze leaves me, all of this will sound too silly, and so it stays in the back of my head.
Everything will stay there, for now.