The Muse

She glides with grace, this uncommon beauty,
From whom I cannot avert my gaze.
Each step she makes seems choreographed
As a tantalising dance takes shape.
In my mind I am Astaire,
Ready to whisk her round the room,
Light-footed, light-hearted,
A whimsical coupling free from care.
Each hair behaves to perfection,
Waving and wafting, on day release,
Framing a whole new study in wonderment.
Her eyes sparkle when they set upon me,
As if interacting with the joy such attentions bring.
They draw my glance to her mouth,
Quickly upturned in a reassuring grin,
Before I retreat back to drown in those eyes
Joyous, sad, deep, flirtacious all at once.
I should content myself with that smile,
But as she turns to the pressing matters of the day;
A cup of coffee, or passing friend,
I am wracked in grief that I know not how
To tell her I am in love.
She is as beautiful to me
As words can convey,
And yet I cannot bring myself to speak,
Lest my love be spurned and a veil be ever drawn
Between me and my matchless joy.