Technicolor Urn

Standing by the door, the room still

Dark and only a sliver of light coming

Through the window, he sees her

Lying in bed.

He doesn’t want to disturb the silence

Of the early morning, he doesn’t want

To disturb her. He stands there,

As time becomes still.

Her body rests on her side,

And the blankets have arranged

Themselves playfully, as her

Hair decorates the fortunate pillow.

Her curves, drawn like a map, and

Contoured with smooth corners

Like an urn.

A technicolor urn, as the light

Invades the room, and he does not

Move, like the time around them.

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