sunday room

It is better to linger in a room reflected back to you
By mirrors draped in faded scarves, scented patchouli
And grey pre-dawn light fades fuschia walls to dusty roses.
As your breath falls on the swell of her breast
And your hand trickles through the river of soft tresses,
Her sighs casting spells of fearlessness.
It is better to linger in a room filled with morning,
In a Sunday room swollen with memory.
With a woman alive and in love,
It is better to linger.