Most people won't admit there's beauty there;
She's got the kind of face they do that to:
A slender smile a little bit askew,
A framing fringe of slightly sloppy hair,
A never-vacant, yet not piercing stare
That always made me wonder if she knew
How long I've looked at her, an inch or two
Of dainty cheekbones, in a matching pair,
But not so much as to inspire songs;
Yet when I look at her, they all combine
Into a pattern I cannot deny;
And everything seems right. Her face belongs,
Inside my heart, as well as in my eye,
And when I cannot see her, they both pine.
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