Beautiful Stranger

once swayed to claim that Shakespeare wrote the perfect tragedy, 
my teacher thought himself so wise as to say 
"there's no such thing as perfect" 
but when five years on, my eyes find your face 
suddenly I want to turn back time 
to argue the validity of 'perfect' until that teacher sees true 

because what kind of creature are you 
tousle-haired like you just woke up, though it's well past noon 
your sweet honey eyes somehow ignited, turning toffee brown 
skin so fair, peppered with freckles 
nose curving gently downward 
and smile slightly crooked, catching on the left hand side 

this is something unfamiliar 
where my head and heart stop working 
(or work overtime) 
my every thought, for a fleeting few minutes, is you 
and like in Shakespeare, this is tragedy paired with perfection 
for I do not know you, and never will