Strings

my pupils consider you
across the room, wanting
only my legs on your knees,
but you clothe yourself with articles
born in academia (a field in which
  I never quite took root)
so I will be contented
  (almost)
with the curls of hair that fall
away from me across
your face, and wisps of birdsong
winding into my ears:
ribbons you have written
on my teeth, harmonies
that bear my name, and bare
your skin

I will wait for darkness
to bathe your neck and shoulders
and pull the strings of you
into my arms