She was beautiful then

When someone asked me what she was like...

She was beautiful then
and tasted of nuts and black coffee;
her neck draped in auburn,
          curls on her shoulder
She smelled like fresh paper
and cinnamon sticks or,
sometimes, a wintery stew
          with red pulses
She felt brown and still –
or rapid with shivers –
her skin like a river;
          solid, yet not
She sang with an accent
to soften the deepest, most
devious paths
          of the heart
In brown leather boots and
an indian shift, jewelery
muted as faint to the face
          as a perfume,
She was beautiful then;
          a memory now
          and faceless.