Mustard & Mint Green

So what if I write a poem about you?
I don't like you or love you.

I was wearing fourteen layers of mustard and mint green
and you briskly touched my back with your hand so lightly.

You were moving behind me,
but you didn't have to touch me.

There was so much space between my back and the wall.
I felt shivers down my spine.
Still -
you didn't have to touch me.
But you did -
so lightly.

Your hair flows like a Spanish river.
Your face straight out of a Renaissance painting.
And your skin no lighter than mahogany.

If I could put you in codes and unlock you, I would.
But I would rather just leave my window open
and listen to the robotic owls.

So it goes:
who cares if I write a poem about you?
I know I'm not worth your time.
And you certainly aren't worth mine.

For there are such beautiful and aesthetically pleasing things for you to look at.
For there are so much more important things for me to do.

I am not beautiful,
but unfortunately,
I can't say the same for you.