"New Subject"
The Student:
She enters like a storm pretending to be silence,
young, but not naïve sharp in ways I only pretend to be.
A new professor, they say.
I hear the whisper of her heels before I see her.
Blonde hair pinned like a secret,
green eyes scanning the room with disinterest,
until they find me too quickly
too long.
I pretend not to blush.
She doesn't look away.
She speaks like thunder reads poetry,
every word tailored
not to impress,
but to mark territory.
She doesn't teach.
She claims the room.
And I…
I take notes I'll never read again,
except the ones she writes on the board,
as if the chalk is blessed to touch her fingers.
I study her like an unsolved equation,
a lesson I crave to fail for,
just to have her correct me
just to hear her say my name again.
Is it wrong to dream in daylight?
To imagine the sound of her breath close,
her hand firm over mine,
correcting my trembling grip?
It's just the first week.
She's barely looked at me.
But I already know
I'd ruin myself beautifully,
just to be her favorite mistake.