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Poetry / Curls

She was mocha cream skinned,
like coffee, she, my weakness
like she still is, and all those curls!
I pretended they were a nuisance,
but at night, I reveled at them in our bed.
I would tangle my fingers in those
twisting brunette curls and pretend
that I could never let them go.
She was this shy beauty, unimpressed
by her reflection, constantly a
critic, even in the face of all my
compliments.
I loved those curls,
and watching her smile
peek from behind them
she was a mocha cream skinned angel
and coffee is still my weakness.