Vanity

Often I ask myself,

“Why do I never write about you?”

And I have come to the conclusion that it would be vain

To write about a part of myself.

A winter’s morning, a frosted sheet,

flicked and laid across our granite tableland.

Houses start to stir , the first plumes of chimney smoke

Gentle into the sun’s early beams.

I can see your bright eyes flicker under your dark eyelashes,

Though they may as well be mine.

As my thumb gently circles your pink lips,

I can’t see where my hand ends and you begin.

To write about you, is to write about myself.

And to write about myself is vain.