Crush

The woman with obsidian satin

locks studies, bowing her head downward, her

brow furrowed, light, with learning lining skin.

She gathers knowledge, calm, before eyes blur

with heavy sleep. Loose strands, like ribbons, fall

before her velvet eyes. Her hand will rise

to sweep distraction out of sight with all

elegance. Writes. Her fingers: inky, wise.

Her tulip mouth pouts sweetly as she thinks

and puzzles over problems, abstract sums

and visions of romance, gone with quick blinks.

Impatient, tapping keys. Her answer comes.

A glance is caught and dropped, embarrassed still.

The newness of her love is yet to spill.