Upstairs, I peek at your picture.
I know I shouldn’t but there, you are.
Something keeps pulling me back
To catch just one more eye of your beauty.
O Helen of Troy, queen of Laconia
Whose beauty brought Troy to its knees.
It is neither your flowery openness
Nor your child-like innocence,
Neither your inner brilliance nor your warm aura,
It is neither the manner your lips
Curve upward when you smile
Nor the way your hips
Dance with the wind when you walk.
No, it is not the anticipated fresh-scented
Whiff of intimacy that steams
From your secret region down south
That has brought me to my knees.
It is that one thing, nameless as it were,
Which no one can take away from you;
That special thing;
That makes you throw caution to the wind.