Her hair
Like a black silk
It flows to her shoulders
And stops abruptly
Her eyes a brown like dark chocolate
Hidden behind rectangular glasses
Her face a yellow tan
Her hand on a keyboard
Typing up poems
I never could
Describing people
In a light of beauty
Telling stories
With unexplainable expression
She paints
With her heart
And draws
With her soul
She plays a piano
Like she speaks
Fluently
Proudly
And powerful
But it is not a matter of the things she can do
It is a matter of who she does them for
It is not a matter of how well she does them
But a matter of her trying
So I see her
And I do not envy her
Because it is enough to know her
That I don't want to be her