Silver rings that go clink-le as they twinkle, glowing white in late-night lamplight. Falling upon one another, clicking into imperfect place. Upon a glass stem that reaches, then narrows, skybound. The daily jingle-jangle makes a microscopic clamor. 

More rhythm, since there exists a system. In placing, one by one, two, three, four, five, six. Halved by hands. Sight is superfluous when I can feel each glittering whorl and shining curve. These engravings are etched into muscle memory and become: reflex. 

But, in a dash for the door, even things treasured and habitual may be forgotten. So, hands remain cold without the presence of a frigider substance. Fingers uncomfortable in the re-discovered freedom that is stroking hair without threat of tangling. Digits used to softly, gingerly slipping black buttons through slim openings. The greedy lace on my favorite jacket is lusting after shiny objects and silver clasps. 

Elusive, too. And so small. Blending into carpet or crammed into corners. Knees pink as fingertips from the scrounging and peering into underbellies suspected of stealing. Worried all week for my lost darling, only for an undramatic reappearance Wednesday evening.   

Is it worth the worry? The tiny hassles, the seconds spent, in vain, adorning. For what exactly? The scattered compliment or the second of sparkle as sunshine slides over the right spot of dusky garnet? 

Because I adore the sensation! Of my prism prison. How heated skin feels slightly sticky against sleek, metallic curves. Texture like, I imagine, a seal. Always slippery, swimming, arching up and around. A breathtaking display of  inhuman flexibility and grace. Cool-toned veins cradled within a reassuringly indifferent band of metal. Pointer snugly wrapped, finding safety in restriction. 

A circle is a perfect shape, ah, but… a bejeweled one is the definition of beauty.