We met by chance, one of those city encounters, that usually lead nowhere.
But it was your dress, the colour matching your smile, the shape of you, suddenly more visible than if you had been naked: I looked at you as a photographer, then as a poet, then – yes of course – as a male who wanted you, who wanted to know and own that beautiful picture of a woman.
But no-one is to own you, for you are free and want to stay that way, you are no object, your beauty is for itself, and if you play, it’s on your terms, dress and all: there is no Pygmalion on your horizon, just you, and, cohorts of people like me – if only I had known.
So we walked, chatting, a close time capsule, oblivious of the crowd, of the trees, of time slipping, your voice as smooth as honey, the colour of your dress still holding me, transfixed.
“So”, you said with a bright scarlet smile, “are you sure you want to know who you have met, Doctor Faust? Then I will show you the other side of me”…