Clink, clink, clink

At first, I thought it was
one of those Patron Saint medals.
Saint Christopher, maybe —
the one who carried a child Christ,
heavy with the weight of the world.
It rested in that hollow
right at the base of your throat,
and when I reached out to touch it,
I brushed your warm skin
with my cold, sure fingers.

But later, as it softly
clink, clink, clinked
in rhythm with our movement,
I decided I liked it much more
knowing that it was just a small charm
that suited you.

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