Though I could no more follow through
with creating a signature than admitting my epiphany that I
appreciate the consistent line of your jaw,
know I spend my days arranging twist-ties
into the shape of my initials,
in hopes of someday building a red sand castle
that could linger in the holes in beige sun hats.
I’d finally get around to
seeing the end of Breakfast at Tiffany's
and stop promising to be better,
start shouting out my juvenile delinquencies
and then politely ask your ghost to go ring the ship’s alarm.
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