It sat in his hands
shifting back and back,
the weight of it testing his fingers,
his imagination
This was left;
his to hold until
somehow he could
learn to put it down.
It would still be there
but maybe not
testing his strength.
She had courage
and did not leave
it on the bed, or near the coffee.
It was a hard truth,
one to place in his hands
and fold his fingers around.
He worried it smooth;
threw her truth against his hope
and watched one break.
He cradled it, examined it, held it out–
an offering to his past–
until he felt his arms tremble,
until he could know.
He pictured their hands
when she set it there,
her fingers unfurling, letting it turn
away from her, into him,
a truth, a gift.
He whispered her name,
and let it fall.