Your voice is warm
and higher than mine
you sing without coal-covered notes
with a voice that never rises in pitch
your laughter is handed out like free pencils
(nobody refuses a free pencil, but within an hour they litter the floor)

Possessing black-rimmed eyes
and a milky face
you have caught in your cream-coated hands
the boy that once put his arm on the back of my chair

His eyes drift to you
and I find it fascinating
how I do not completely dwell
on the possibility of ripping your yellow-white hair
from your albino scalp