I am not married (woefully), but I have a diamond ring.
I am not engaged (woefully), but I have a diamond ring.
My diamond ring shimmers from my right hand, not my left.
But people don't look at which side it's on, and they only see the diamond.
Maybe they think I'm taken? Sometimes they ask.
But, as Maria, who gave me the diamond, said, I don't need a man to wear a diamond.
And, as the saying goes, "the right hand is for me."
I shake hands with my right hand. I hold a pen with my right hand. I rest my chin on my right hand. I raise a toast with my right hand. I sneak a taste with my right hand. I wipe a tear with my right hand.
The diamond was an estate piece when Maria got it, and I've had it several years now already, but it still sparkles every time I look down on it, even more so in the shine of the sun, by burn of candlelight, or by twinkle of nightlight.
My diamond ring is a little loose on my finger now, but it stays on steadfast, sometimes twirling around, but never squeezing past the knuckle to fall off.
I'm keeping my diamond ring on my right hand, to keep my left hand for him, whoever he may be. And until I find him, I still have a diamond that's all just for me.
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