Her summer dress is red as a ripe September apple,
a pink sunset dances upon her cheeks.
I steal glances as she scrawls
rapidly, frantically, a diligent worker bee,
attempting to preserve, like buzzing flies in amber,
the words spewing out of the teacher's mouth.
I can almost see gears spinning in her head.
Perhaps they are what draw the blood to her cheeks
like moths to a flame.
Or maybe it is simply that she is alive.
Meanwhile, the teacher's words hang
lazily in the distance.
The lecture seems to belong to another world
of banality and redundancy.
I can finish my teacher's sentences for him.
So I am content to float away,
her dress transfigured into a magic carpet
upon which I soar through the sky painted upon her cheeks
with bold strokes of fiery pastels,
until an electronic buzz signals the class' end
and forces me back to earth.