It’s a forest overrun with foliage.
A lush jungle of dark strands so thickly come together,
you’d swear it was midnight on the brightest day.
Your hair is my weakness.
So many things about you cause my strength to drain,
but the luscious mane atop your head is as if Delilah stole Samson’s locks and held him hostage at her feet.
Freshly showered and soaking wet,
you could over take kingdoms with merely a stare,
and have offers to drink the droplets that fall from your ends as if it were a potion that grants eternal life.
Waves as deadly as the ocean’s anger,
only more subtle,
but just as easy to get lost in for weeks.
Straightened like the drop of a cliff,
the sudden stop at the bottom
is my heart when she’s gone.
My hands have never felt what home was like
until they were tangled among your tresses.
The idea of pulling them free is preposterous in both ability and desire.
Wild on the moors.
The way you look at me from a distance and how your hair frames your face with its windswept nature,
captivates me every time just as the first.
Simple pleasures are what our lives consist of and make it smile into tomorrow.
Such as the way my fingers clear the brush from your face,
and curl it behind your ears so we may kiss cleanly.
Or to simply kiss through the hanging gossamer
and taste it because,
my need for you rarely knows the patience for a delicate touch.
Lady Godiva, take up your horse,
and ride naked through the streets
with only your hair to keep you modest.
Let me worship you at the end of your length,
and have it caress my face as it does your chest,
and allow my fetish for you to never die.