Mohabbat as an address

I scratched my hair in raving fury as
we lay in bed
Side by side
Enough distance between us...
One coiled into a pillow while the other flat on back awaiting in the patience of a dog
Side by side
Breath wise.
Our selves facing the open french windows to an April evening's alluvium winds-
hungry as the rains-
whipping the naive room fan air out of its living daylights.
Snapping from the universe of her mind she gazes my way
and announces tentatively
"I want to cut your hair. It will help you get rid of the lice like you did to mine."
i smell the petrichor in the air and say nothing.
She gets up from bed, advances toward me in careful steps
And just as slowly as she arrives
i growl upon her with a sudden pounce
To this drops her plan and her face and she runs away with pure cry in her voice
A dog barks somewhere. Incessantly.
Portending something ?
She returns a few minutes later with a huge bed cushion- a shield
Like an ambivalent warrior on formidable terrain.
"Why did you do that to me", laments she
A benediction i offer to her spirit, her pluck. To return.
"I wanted to strike fear, no, caution into your heart so you never bother me with that idea again", i reply with a kind maliciousness.
i become the serpent one seeks out to court.

But the beautiful girl falls on my lap, laying her hair black sea tangle
Always and again and says," Why did you cut my hair. Look if you hadn't done that i would have had this much hair."
There is sorrow in her voice as she states this.
Stroking her wild curls gently, i hear the thunder and i remember her.
All this while all the skies could do is dream up cameo lightenings like
madness descending upon us sometimes.
Inevitably.
"God spoke to me yesterday Amma. And I don't know what god told me but I want to cut your hair"
No you cannot, i say one last time with my eyes
This is when she mutates into a storm goddess,
a little goddess,
casting a wrath tossing the cushion, stomping off  in seared steps with a gale close on her heels
from my room to hers.
My ears catch her stirring watercolours in jars- elixiristic potions, under the aegis of the
rain which marries the Kochi earth outside.
i recall that her eyebrows smell of incense sticks because she believes they will help thicken them.
With the tempering of time, she makes an appearance with a spiritual toughness and offers me-
"I am not your friend because you are love", a libation.
Always waiting on my breath
Forever knowing our breaths are interdependent
In other words, Mohabbat....