See the look on her face,

Almost looks like desperation,

Maybe desire,

No way of knowing,

Never met her,

Staring at her though,

Wondering if she's afraid to love,

Afraid to even look,

Her dark eyes leaking all over the cabin, 

Her tresses as black as coal,

 Beauty is what I call her lost soul.

The doors open, I inhale

Hoping that she'll stain the insides of my brain.

My muse gone,

but inspiration remains.