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.