A waterfall of dark hair,
frames her face – focusing
eyes that grace you,
a gift when they find you,
to burn through your lies,
the untruths you sell
(mostly to yourself,
the hell of twisted introspection)
The lips, curve – paint the air,
an artist framing you.
Your tremble as she measures,
her whispers
weighted with her foreign tongue,
pronouncements
sighs
and the sudden sounds
of surrender
Her face, framed –
the dark water falling,
forming
a tunnel,
her face above
yours, below.
The screaming,
rushing water.
Her face.
Her face.
Writer Moe 
Beautiful..I was spellbound the entire poem.
my newer one, “metamorphing”, builds on the theme in its way
I do.
So that’s interesting, to me.
This one is interesting…
You think so?