The first circle is fluid. It is maroon and coarse, its edges rough. It has sunk into the paper upon which it sits and has dried overnight dulling the colour somewhat, in the way pressed flowers become slightly faded shadows of their former selves.
The second is the same. It overlaps the first like an angry Venn diagram. It has been smudged and spilt, so that its rim resembles the corona of the sun but without the heat or the light, just the fire. The two circles largely exist alone, except for one small area where they cross.
The third circle is made of glass. It lies at right angles to the first two, a faint pink tinge around its base. The circle leads up the elegant stem to the bowl, tainted with purple flecks, a tiny purple residue now staining the side.
The fourth and fifth circles are made of gold. The first describes two arcs which meet on each side of a promise in the form of a small diamond. The second, just gold. A vow.
The final circle is the one at the bottom of the page. Written in haste but after months of contemplation, of wine being drunk, of rings removed. It sits quite perfectly nestled among five others. Together they read, ‘I’m gone.’