Tacky Blue

A tacky blue with certain tightness, fastened around the small wrist,
which without, would look so terribly hollow.
Steady arms swinging around the plastic face, plastered against tan skin,
which without, feet would pitter-patter urgently across the concrete.
Her face, so innocently proud as she spoke of her timekeeper,
which without, she could never smile.

Now, her fingers glided over the keys of the laptop,
Her eyes flitted to the glassy face which concealed
the lazy, soundless movement of the brown ticking arms.

Now, she halted for a moment, a strange sense of nostalgia.
Looking over to her table, she smiled, in some sort of relief.
Almost sheepishly, it hid behind the pens and books of her table.

Tacky blue fading away into the dull gloss of plastic,
Straps far too small to fit around the wrist.
Steady ticking no more against the scratched face,
Frozen, no longer a timekeeper for her.
Still it sat, unmoving, gathering dust. For even after this long,
she spoke of it with the most innocent pride.