Black eyelashes that flutter against an ivory cheek.
Lips that stumble over words, parting gently over a stolen breath
that escapes from lungs too full of hope
to remember how to breathe.
This is what he does to her: he is the cause to her effect,
the rhythm that moves the cadence of her pulse,
the blood that even now blooms upon her face.
He seems unaware, somehow, of this strange power of his.
And when those wondering, deep brown eyes are raised,
as if in question, raised to meet the mystery of his gaze,
she finds he is already staring, already trying to unravel
just what it is that pulls him so to her.
Quickly, softly, those eyelashes come down again,
like the whisper of silk shades drawn against the light.
She brushes her hair over her face so that it falls,
clinging like ivy, to hide her timidity.
The scent of her hair wafting in the space between them.
Scent of freesia intertwined with strawberries.
Irresistibly sweet, like forbidden fruit you can’t ignore,
but must reach out to taste and touch.