She is the description of disorder, the description of chaos

The description of disorder. The description of chaos. Literature is a picture of this chaos, according to Balzac, who used to follow strangers when he thought they were interesting.

You could tell she liked the subject. Her hands were alive, dancing to the music in her words. Messy hair, all curls and chivalry, which framed her face. Her skin isn't tanned but it's not actually pale either. It's the exact shade of indoors tan, that special creamy tone our skins get after we spend a while under tha classroom lights. Dressed in grays and blacks, her hair stands out. Falling to her shoulders, dyed those many different blondes and browns.

Her whole self was petite, but she stood tall, making it look as if she were bigger. Reading glasses up her nose, she reads us poems and then takes the glasses off, eyes glowing, so she can descipher the poems for us. Her lips are thin but have the most wonderful of shapes. They're always curved at the corners, painted a faded shade of fucsia. 

There are lines in her face. Lines around her eyes, marks of the many years she's spent smiling. Lines above her brows, the memory of the years spent focusing on everything she must have studied. She looks at each of us, all the time. The depths of her eyes hide all of her secrets behind a grayish brown screen. And they shine. Her eyes shine with such intensity that sometimes it is impossible to look away.

She's thin, but there are beautiful curves in her body. The hidden curve of her waist, the soft curve of her hips. Her legs are long and slim. She really does look frail, but the expression in her eyes blows that image away. One look into her face and you can see a fierce tenderness towards everything around her. One look into her eyes and you can see the fondness. She has loving eyes, caring eyes, smiling eyes.

She's always well dressed. She never loses her feminine touch, but she's not less powerful because of that. Wearing a fabulous skirt, she walks down the halls lost in her own world and goes home to a loving husband.

When she smiles, her whole face brightens. And her excitement for the subject is captured in her voice, in her movements: her hands move lively around and she keeps taking her glasses as if to put them on and then lets them fall back to the table. She puts them on and takes them off as fast as lightning.

I admire her, more than I will probably tell anyone. She's one of the best teachers I've ever had. She's captivated by this subject, completely cativated. Just as I am.