X: She

She is imperfection, wrapping
hair round her finger, blowing
bright bubbles into the sunshine
from a green sticky wand.
Sand on the soles of her feet she
totters to the whistle of an ice-cream van,
Doesn't make it in time,
runs a soapy hand through her curls
She is (I wish, I wish, I wish) mine for now
And I can pretend all I want.
She settles down in the sandpit once more,
Blissfully unaware.