She Is a Tonic I Wish To Drink

She blooms like a rose in the quiet,
cheeks blushed with awkward grace.

Long fingers lost in a
tangle of dark brown strands,
like water graced with a rainbow oil slick.

I can only watch, from across the room
from behind my book, I watch her.
She eats the muffin delicately,
gulps her coffee and dog ears the corner
of her book.

When she stands
I see panty lines,
and I blush furiously,
hiding further behind my book.

When she passes by me, the trailing wind
leaves a tendril of her perfume behind;
I drink her in and watch her exit.