I have a book,
of course,
when you arrive,
I give a look
that brushes past you
then moves back
and tries
to catch your eyes,
then I look down
regard the page
that I don't see
and if my hair is long
I twirl a strand
if short well then
my fingers make
a lazy trail
along my throat
and fiddle
with my neckline
as if to ease
a captured breath
a pounding pulse;
I risk another glance
to see
if chance has brought
your eyes to me
and seeing their
moist gleam will give
a turn of head
the slightest hint of parted
lips, not quite a smile
just promise
of a welcome,
and if you keep
your gaze on mine
I'll close the book
and fold my hands
and match you
blink for blink
as shoulders turn
oh, just a touch,
toward you
an open stance
of invitation,
my pheromones
a challenge on
the wind.
And if you move
and come my way
I will retreat
behind my book
to wait and see
the strength of
your ambition.
Faint heart
indeed that lets
a flimsy shield
of pulp and paper
nail him to his seat,
and he who hesitates
to cross the floor
and say hello
is lost;
another dream
I've wakened from
to find myself alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem