Angela Cleland
poet  |  novelist

Wristwatch

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Buckled to your wrist that first evening,
I thought this strap would hold as long as time.

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Your arm was support; I felt expensive;
I felt your pride in just having me there.

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Then, I still spoke. Now I only ever tut, 
constantly, quietly and mostly to myself.

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And your silence on the subject of me 
is like cold metal pressed on warm flesh.

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Now cracks are gaping at the buckle's pin.
I could drop softly to the tarmac any day

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and I might. And would you notice?
Comfort has worn your senses thin.

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Sure you glance down at me when you need to,
but all you see is time passing –

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I remember how you used to say, “look at her:
what a beauty,” and they’d watch my face light up.