Amandane

Eyes the color of the eldest of trees, Hair straight with a light wave of wind, And skin the color of the sun’s sandy beach, But she is one made as oil with water With no mix, just parts in the same glass. So what then is she; this single person? Both ingredients call to her rich heart, Though one more abundant than the other They speak to her in a tug-o-war. Pick me they cry in whispers of pride, Trying to pull her from sturdy ground. Pick me! See how you are like me And they point to those features; Those eyes, that hair, that skin. Like spilled coffee on white lace It floods through her to clutch one How much do I need