She must be a muse

I've always been a shy introverted guy.
That's probably why I spend most of my time
at home with my poems.

My best friend owns
the second-hand bookstore
two blocks away from my house.
He could be my grandfather
but I like to chat with him
about Mahmood Darwish,
a countryman of his.

But my friend is in his 80s
and from time to time
his grandaughter helps him
with the accounting.

She
is
gorgeous.

Every time I enter the shop
her eyes captivate me.
I feel defenseless
on my knees
and I only wish
she ties me down
with her long curly dark mane.

She must be a fallen muse
waiting for someone
to inscribe her thighs
in the most sensual poem.
She must be a prophet.
She must be a religion.
She must be mine.

One day, my friend was not in the shop.
But she was
and she told me she knew
I liked poetry, she knew
I desired her.

From a stack a books she took
“The Flowers of Evil”
a full-colored edition
with drawings of angels
fucking their way to paradise
or hell.

Only then I noticed
the shop was closed.
We were at the bookstore
alone.