That Thing

Upstairs, I peek at your picture.    
I know I shouldn't but here you are.  
Something keeps pulling me back    
To catch just one more eye of your beauty.  
O Helen of Troy, queen of Laconia  
Whose beauty brought Troy to its knees.  
   
It is neither your flowery openness  
Nor your child-like innocence,  
Neither your inner brilliance nor your warm aura,    
It is neither the manner your lips    
Curve upward when you smile  
Nor the way your hips    
Dance with the wind when you walk.  
   
No, it is not the anticipated fresh-scented    
Whiff of intimacy that steams  
From your secret region down south    
That has brought me to my knees.  
   
It is that one thing, nameless as it were,  
Which no one can take away from you;  
That special thing;  
That thing  
That makes you throw caution to the wind.