My hair hats my head, veils my neck, willows my shoulders,
  curls around my ears, light brown and gold with a gray
slow-moving, melodic melody line I love. 
  I have no onyx Rembrandt hat with a rim
or cap of white on, no enigmatic expression
  behind which teams an ocean of emotions and history.

His hair, I run my fingers through whenever given the
  chance.  He wears no sable Rembrandt hat either,
no vague expression. He puts his socks on standing
   on one foot reciting Laurel and Hardy.
Laying across the end of the bed in my chetah silk gown,
  I observe him, intrigued with this behavior and imagine
him adding juggling balls of socks of different colors.
  Which socks to put on? The ones that fall.

He finishes, buttoning his shirt.  I determine to leap,
  pin him to my bed, kiss his mouth, face, neck,
bite his ear. I attack my prey. Retreat is futile.
  He observes my behavior laughing...
I wish I wore a black Rembrandt hat.
  Removing it last, I'd fling it up in the air to land
perfectly on the hat stand.  His socks I'd hide
 under my bed accompanying shoes secretly eclipsed.
I'm deciding.  Deciding... I don't want him to leave.
  I may never want him to leave!  Hmm... he'll
have to find his socks and shoes first.