she is hunched, maybe
carefully,
over a piece of paper
it has determined her future

she is not, maybe,
a person,
warm roots in cold soil,
maybe blooming, naked, maybe.

does she, you wonder,
moisturize?
she has good skin,
even as she picks it apart.

I listen, detached,
as you laugh.
does she know you?
she should know you struggle for words.

her eyes are wide,
cute, prob'ly,
though you can't tell:
you can only see all of her

even that's tricky.
especially
'cause you can't look,
not for long, not without flushing.

is she looking?
you get caught.
you're imagining things,
and that's, oh god, embarrassing.

is she looking?
does she see--
does she look at me?
her hands might be rough 'cause she's

rough, physical,
plays in dirt.
lays out in the sun,
probably she even climbs trees.

she sets down her eyes and picks up her pen and gets to work.