[written in a plane over the Atlantic]
Can I describe how it feels to stroke your hair,
to run my fingers through your locks,
with the colour of the fire that burns in me,
I can feel it in my hands,
and sense it as your hair lands gently on your face,
finer than the silk that adorns you,
as long as it needs to be,
the veil to your mind,
into which its shine invites me.