Metamorph
There's something about him...
The fall of his hair,
His coy little smiles and
His long absent stare,
The stretch of his fingers,
The swell of his chest,
The stoop of his shoulders
All work to suggest—
There's something about him;
He isn't like my
Few others at all, but
I couldn't say why.
The scratch of his stubble
Reminds me that he
Is one thing, but still
All my senses agree—
There's something about him
I can't quite define.
His hands stray across me,
Disarming as wine.
His heart never opens;
His mind's never still;
I seem to discern,
If I bend all my skill—
There's something about him.
It hasn't a name
That captures the essence
In one solid frame.
It hasn't the strength
To ignite, like a flint,
But reason compels me
To take as a hint—
Those eyes full of darkness,
Of passion, of pain,
The blue-gray-and-green
Of the sky after rain,
Of pale gentle laughter,
Compassion, command,
The stern looks that beckon
And cow and demand,
The soft looks that weaken,
The stroke of a hand...
These change my perception
And end the deception
Of our misconception.
Do you understand?
Can't they all understand—
There's something about her...
The slant of her face,
Her full tender lips
And her trembling embrace
Take her out
Of the order
I've learned
And make her
Into something
She wasn't
Before:
A woman.