A Tress of Hair

Cocoon of late afternoon, amber-shuttered, the day on hold for each secret moment in sweet suffocating gold, trembling to touch the sensual warmth of its coiling comet; to let it travel, let it all unravel, feel it unfold a fan of gold across his face and see the day through hints and tints of saffron glints; gilt silk enwrapping and caressing lips against the golden flood, the sunlight spill, softest sun showers tickling throbbing skin. A gilt guilty secret waterfalling over fingers teasing sun-gilded skin; breathing in pulsing perfumes of the once-alive, still lustrous with an inner life of gold and what it is to have, possess and hold. To grope the glinting rope of it, to feel the slow strangling, gold-glorious scarfing, the not-quite-seedy secret of it; burying himself in the gleaming dream of it. To release the caged bird of desire - a flaxen phoenix flying free in sun-gold air. To unloose blonde fronds of hair soft like breath against his flesh. Sweet subtle scents to haunt and taunt each sense, each deep breath in and out, in, out, up, down, fingering the lingering essence of it, everything on hold to relieve the amber aching hours, to kiss and caress the gold-glinting gift; the silk-slippery warmth of it.