She had Spanish eyes and a curling mouth,
glossy black hair and fragile wrists,
lithe long torso and springtime legs
and he loved her.
In the mornings,
he'd observe her slouch to biology,
hidden by books sleep lingering in eyes.
He'd tell her she was a mouthful of air, all at once
and she'd mischievously echo stars and moon—
Midmorning, she painted skies on his heart,
scream out her dreams,
a lark come to call silence,
and he'd think again that there weren't quite enough
words to tell the way she laughed.
In the afternoon,
she'd retreat again,
tie back her hair.
Occasionally, she'd twirl away
just to watch him watch her, with his
wide, solemn eyes.
In the evenings, he'd commit her to memory—
with her spinning arms and singing breath—
He'd compare her to a raindrop,
humming a thousands songs on
a sunny day—
and flouting where shadows lurked beneath.