I sparkle in the lights.
I'll make you three inches taller
if you swipe your finger
a little higher.
She will show off to her friends
over sips of chilled wine
each of my golden flakes, wide-eyed,
while having you over.
I am tactile. I am stitched by hand
by old artisans with wooden tools,
buffing lovingly for hours, days,
under the cloudy rays,
until emerges the right luster.
I wink at you. Every hour of every day.
From unobtainable sights
to the intimacy of your own chair
or from your new phone
I am your rank.
What separates you from them,
in crowded halls, felling one another
while you disapprovingly
shake your head.
You want me. I want you
to want me. Your life,
for so long without aim,
will take on the happy accident
of getting me instead.
Your heart will beat fast
while you unwrap another year
of raking the fields
of your successful dream
one final step closer.