Busying herself in books as that aquiline nose peeps out the windows pour a bucket filled sunrays on her and are reflected in those carnivore teeth that she has, if looked closely you’ll find her gazing intently on the book, trust me she is pretending but that smile hides all the pretensions as you shall be flown with it to distant land, far stars.
She has hidden her face by her flowing blackness, her hair. Medusa would’ve been proud of her. Looking through the windows perhaps in twilight. Tiny mottled spots embellish her garb as if a starlit night. Gazing intently at something too expensive to be known. She has left colors, if it were her she’d say, its sepia now into which I’ve grown.
Black and white is viewed into a little peek into her face convoluted with her ever flowing tress, the momentary Polaroid still makes her smile, has it ever been me. I construe all while. Her face is lit up like those small light bulbs. Perhaps the lights went out fused and my thoughts from her mind too.
Look at those eyes closely if you can. You’ll see a twinkle every time you see her smile. The twinkle in her eyes is like the doorbell before the visitor arrives, the visitor here being her smile. She has a way with words you can see in the way she handles her hairs, each word held carefully filled with meanings and then strewn into paper. Back to world of colors cow. You never wanted to let me look at your pictures anyhow.
Her album explains after all she is not that pretty
Though I’ve looked at her face just a few infinite times since eternity.
Ah look at me in a one way street,
I’d gladly fall for her but would she ever hold onto me?