She smells like the summers of India,
Heat radiating from her skin,
Her eyes two green planets on our own.
I can see her through the window,
Wrapping paper thin Egyptian cotton
Tightly around her *******.
I know not to stare,
But her beauty wraps its fingers around my neck.
When she is finished she will stand back,
Gaze at herself in the mirror.
She just might cry,
Like I have seen her do nights before.
In early morning
She will step onto the balcony.
Rising before the dew touches the earth.
I know not the first thing about her,
Save the glory of her beauty.
Perhaps I shall never know more.
No,
I know not the first thing about her,
But she loves to watch the sun rise.