Often the image re-appears,
comes inopportunely, brought by
sounds of breezes around corners,
leaves scurrying on pathways,
shadows creeping across sun light
in our courtyard, taking me to a
private corner of the pink room,
where I was bidden to comb your
tresses down your long back, bare
sometimes when sun intruded in
wide lines across the patterned
carpet, power and authority of
being summoned, expected to be
a listening silent companion, point
of view irrelevant, point of view more
a place of mute watching, firm skin
shoulders sometimes touched by
accident of rhythmical process,
sense of repetition, whilst those
below going about their business
oblivious of your mental note taking, 

building up your arsenal for
future battles and conflagrations,
me in my ignorance, my growing
awareness when you knew that
my wish was to part your hair to
hang down across each of your
breasts, and to have curiosity of
touch and feel satiated, reverie
broken by request for a softer
combing motion, or what was I
to be doing hereafter, other than
being lost in dreaming about silken
hair that stretched out adolescent
fantasies that knew no limits, lost
in the infinity of unreality that had
no boundaries, imagination without
edges until my own crimped curly 

hidden hirsute life began to insinuate 

itself in my dark folds and crevices.