Your Ring Hurts My Finger

I’ve made up my mind,
To keep mum no longer,
About this rather handsome diamond ring,
That hurts my finger.

This ring, dear husband,
Fit perfect on my finger,
When you would come home early,
With chocolate boxes and bottles of wine,
With fresh roses on Valentine’s Day,
Those days, dear husband,
When you paid attention,
When we melted in each other’s embrace for hours,
When our eyes locked with assurance,

But look how you’ve changed, dear husband,
You don’t do the things you used to do,
Your schedules are tight, you say,
Office hours have been extended,
And again, sweetheart,
There is red paint in your workplace these days,
That stains your spotless shirt,
And lips,
Besides, dear husband
What is this perfume that your boss sprays your office with?
You come home soaked in it
It smells good, I must confess,
But you see dear husband,
It reminds me of this hurting finger!

My finger hurts further, dear husband
With your coldness and indifference,
And with your carefree attitude,
The emotional torture is unbearable,

Therefore, dear husband
I’m leaving this ring in your study,
When you come home at the ungodly hour,
Size it one more time,
And find a finger for it.