Latches, hooks, like beaks,
Clasping together and holding tight,
Yet firstly repelling.
Dented all over,
Reflecting miniaturized rainbows.
A never ending, thin rectangular prism,
Curving and curling,
Where the clasps want to once again meet.
Colours like autumn leaves with a transparent blend,
A natural call of beauty,
Peaceful with most un-primary colours.
Beads as hard and cool,
But seemingly warm,
As a church stain-glassed window in winter sun.
Like a zipper, it would taste cold and irony,
Then sweet as your tongue plays with it.
Once it’s fitted to a wrist,
It’s ready to move.
Like a pet, if lost,
The heart would be torn in two.
From little people with little hands,
Perhaps a sister might want it,
As sisters do.