A beautiful woman

I always remember her as someone around whom I could put my arms.

She is compact is a strong and sensual way.

I love the way her hair smells of the tiny jasmines she tucks into it’s depths.

I remember the little jasmine bush growing outside her window and as I peer through the trellis I see her lying in bed, propped up on one elbow, reading a book. One hand casually drapes along her leg.

I know I can run into the coolness of her room and she will talk to me. Her fingers distractedly plucking at mine or thrumming a tempo on my body, while her eyes rove hungrily over the page, drinking up life from between the pages.

And I lie mesmerized, pressed up against her. Marveling at her as she lounges in a sari of soft white cotton patterned with the silken weave of crimson dots.

She is queen of this, my world, calm and self assured.

The reassuring warmth and confident pressure of her hands are my all.

And I drowse in dreams snatched through the sun filtering in through the snowy filigree of her curtains, reflected in the polished floor.

I’ll grow up to be like her one day.
This beautiful beautiful woman that she is.