Between The Lines...♥️ Poem by ASHIRAFU MIIRO

Spot me...Between the Lines...!

When morning searches for beauty, Shamie, it finds your forehead first,
Its quiet brightness smoother than a mirror before the first hand touches it.
Like two fine strokes of charcoal, your eyebrows rest above your eyes,
Long lashes falling softly, guarding two worlds of wonder.
Your pupils are dark as the deepest night, while the clear whites of your eyes make that darkness shine,
Or perhaps it is your gaze itself that gives the darkness its beauty.
Under those delicate eyelids, every blink seems like a secret being folded away.

How can the cheeks be so soft, yet carry the warm colour of roses?
Upon your nose, even simplicity has found its perfect shape.
Gently curved are your lips, red as ripe fruit, made brighter whenever you smile.
Milk could borrow whiteness from your teeth and still not equal their brightness;
Each one sits in its place like a row of little pearls.

Your tongue carries the red of a rose petal,
and your voice—what is a sweeter instrument than that?
It does not merely speak; it arrives like music,
sometimes low as evening, sometimes bright as a bird at dawn.

Your neck rises gracefully beneath your face,
your shoulders falling naturally into the architecture of your frame.
Your arms have the softness of silk,
and your wrists seem made especially for bracelets.
Your hands—what patient little artists they are,
and what beauty lives in the movement of your fingers.

Keeping secrets beneath your palms,
Imagining stories through every gesture,
Soft fingers resting where rings and bracelets belong,
Such delicate digits that even handwriting becomes graceful when they move.

Maybe that is why your handwriting looks unlike handwriting at all;
Each letter seems to have been taught elegance by your fingers.

Your waist gathers your figure with quiet precision,
your hips carry that beautiful balance between strength and softness,
and when you walk, even stillness seems to learn movement from you.

Your thighs have the calm fullness of a sculpture,
your knees smooth and naturally formed,
your calves carrying the quiet strength of someone made to walk far.
Your ankles are fine where they meet the earth,
and even your feet possess their own small poetry.

The heel, the arch, the sole—nothing has been forgotten.
Your toes sit together like little notes at the end of a melody,
and where earrings rest, your ears are soft enough to make gold look ordinary.

Your hair—
black as coal, black as the sky after the moon disappears,
long enough to make the wind jealous,
soft enough to make a comb hesitate before passing through it.

And when it falls over your shoulders,
Let nobody tell me that perfume is necessary.
L your natural scent already carries the quiet sweetness of musk;
One breath of it makes manufactured fragrance seem like an unnecessary announcement.
Why cover what nature already perfected?

Your skin is mirror-smooth,
reflecting light without asking it to stay.
It has the softness of polished satin,
the warmth of something touched by sunlight but never damaged by it.

My eyes return again and again to your face,
Even after promising themselves they would look elsewhere.

Had I the courage to ask what beauty permits,
Under all this description, perhaps I would ask only one thing:
Give me a moment close enough to hear your breathing,
Far from noise, where the world can keep its distance.
Reach no conclusion except the warmth of your presence,
Only let me rest for a moment where your shoulder meets mine,
Maybe with my arms around you from behind, gently, if you allow it.

And Shamie, if you ever laughed at the audacity of my poetry,
I would count that laughter among your finest features.

Your smile would become another kind of jewellery,
your cheeks another sunrise,
your eyelids another evening,
your hair another midnight.

And I would still have unfinished questions.

Because these fingers of yours keep distracting my thoughts,
I wonder what stories they would tell if my own hand simply met them.
Kindly, let me touch those fingers—not possess them, only greet them.
Even a moment would be enough to make a memory.

Would you let me write a small poem upon your fingers,
In letters so tiny that only your hands could read them?
Then perhaps I would write nothing at all,
Hoping you would understand what silence was saying.

My hands would carry no demand,
Except the old request hidden quietly beneath these lines:

Come, let us ride a bicycle together,
Out where the evening road is quiet,
Moving side by side with no audience,
Every turn of the wheel making the world a little farther away.

And when the journey becomes tiring,
I will remember that you once said yes to nothing I asked,
and somehow said everything by smiling.

So, Shamie,
your eyes may be beautiful,
your eyelids delicate,
your eyebrows dark,
your lashes long,
your lips red,
your teeth white as milk and pearls,
your tongue red as a rose,
your voice sweeter than music,
your neck graceful,
your shoulders gentle,
your arms soft,
your hands elegant,
your fingers fine,
your waist delicate,
your hips perfectly balanced,
your thighs graceful,
your knees smooth,
your calves strong,
your ankles fine,
your feet complete to the smallest toe,
your ears perfectly placed for every earring,
your skin clear as a polished mirror,
and your hair black as coal.

But beauty, after all these descriptions,
still has not explained the real problem.

Because whenever I finish describing you,
there is always another line I want to write.

And perhaps that is the line
you were supposed to find
between the lines.

— Miiro