To Her Vagueness

You like to scribble around the margin and

across,

onto the old-wood desk.

You like to bruise the goose bump-skin of the waves

with the tip of your silver-ring toes.

You like to sit on top of a tree and

sleep.

You like to wind that pocket-watch to

4:34 and throw the

batteries into the bin.

You like to romance the sun-dial in your

heartbreaking fervour and quietly

slip into Hepatic Coma.

Someday I'm going to borrow some of your beautiful vagueness.

Someday.

When your man has left me all

vague.