She's let her hair down tonight.
It spills over the back of the sofa
in magnificent honey brown curls
swirls
and twirls.
She lets me weave my fingers
gently in
and pull the strands away
that hide her eyes.
I think of Delilah.
I think of a wild huntress
deep in the Bolivian jungle,
ruthlessly stalking her prey.
The TV is playing low.
How to Mary A Millionaire is on.
Bacall, Monroe, and Grable
have all set their man traps.
It's only a matter of time.
We speak in lover's whispers
as I fold my fingers into her's.
I've studied the art upon her walls,
the photos on the fridge,
the books she reads,
her well played albums.
We share much already.
I tell her I want to be closer.
We kiss,
letting our warm hands
blissfully explore,
yet somehow I'm drawn back
into those magical brown curls
again.
On the TV, Marylin is having man trouble.
Evidently she's bagged an ordinary broke Joe,
but she's fallen for the sap anyway.
I try to remain sympathetic.
It's such a cruel and obvious trap.