Her by Jacob Adams

Her hair.
Cinnamon waterfalls
that drowned me.

Her teeth.
Thirty-two shimmering
oyster treasures.

Her nose.
A steep ridge of
sculpted confidence.

Her laugh.
Melts my stability,
I crumple. Happily.

She glances my way.
Dark jaspers shred
my composure.

She stands.
A reincarnation
of Venus de Milo.

She’s in front of me now.
Heart an alarm,
mind a canvas.

“Get ready for practice.”
I meekly obey her grace,
as we prepare our ensemble.