Through the window beside me, the sun has fallen
and landed on a lady whom I've never met.
I have never before seen this girl,
nor can I see her face now.
She sits directed towards me a little, with her head
tilted over at the table. Homework, no doubt.
She scribbles away.
The sun winks at her--it plays for her.
It rolls against her arms. Oh, those arms!
I daresay I've never seen such arms
as that of this girl through the window.
They are not dark, but tan, as though
she spends her time at the pool, or beach.
I can just see her on a striped blanket
with her sunglasses on and a bathing suit.
She soaks up the sun like oxygen,
and those arms are wrapped and tangled in
and around another. A fine man.
A man--I hope--is somehow me.
They're all I can see of this lady,
but they are made from life and beauty.
And those hands, her left holds the pencil
and there is no ring. No jewelry in sight,
just the bare skin that was her birthright.
And I imagine those hands within another,
for they look as though they were made that way.
They were made to be interlocked
with someone else. And perhaps they have.
Perhaps she knows of a clever soul
that can match those hands--those arms!--with
a humble desire she so longs for.
My dear, I hope, that if I cannot
have her; see her apart from this moment,
may it be that she has someone worthy of love
that wraps her in with a comforting hold
and keeps her tucked within his pocket.
I wish it could be me,
though I am trapped like a zoo exhibit
behind library walls and windows.
Oh, the student--that he should be
so close to one, and yet
the distance decides everything.
I can't sleep.