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“He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin

“She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.”
― Amy Efaw, After

“He tried to measure his day
by tallying the hours on his wrist.
I wiped it off and called him a prisoner.
He placed the hours on a scale
with hours from former days to compare.
I took a hammer and broke it all.
He bent down and picked up the
shards of minutes first
then swept the seconds.
I told him he’d missed a spot;
there were some sparkling specks left.
'What are they?' he asked.
'Those are moments,' I said.
'What are they made of?' he asked.
They are times, I thought, when you win a race
or win a heart.
They are times when you give birth
or lay something, someone to rest.
When you wake up in the morning
with a smile because anything is possible.
When someone compliments the thing
you hate most about yourself.
Times when you are embarrassed.
Times when you are hurtful.
Times when you relish in a hearty meal.
Times when you service others and
are content with a well-spent day.
'What are they made of?' he asked again.
'They are made up of times when we are fully present.'
I picked up one of the specks with the tip
of my finger.
'Do you remember this?' I asked.
'Of course,' he said, 'I was whistling in the kitchen
that morning.'
'Why?' I asked.
'Because of the knowledge
that I was loved.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Cut cakes, not wrists”
― Troye Sivan

“She touches her wrist where her watch used to be, her fingers lost without time to hold on to.”
― Jenny Hubbard, Paper Covers Rock

“Above the wrist? Or below the wrist?”
― Dan Chaon, Await Your Reply