Sunday morning

The walls were white,

Yellow light.

Big square windows parcelled in fours.

Their feet,

wrapped in sheets.

Her hair was dusting your shoulders

as you sleep.

Lips closed and eyes singing;

she looked to his.

Twists in her torso,

soft lines down an iridescent spine.

Her breath teasing the nape of your neck.

A record was spinning.

Coffee brewed and staying warm.

Fogging up the window,

it sat on the sill,

with something stronger than caffeine

dissipating like glitter through melted oil.

In powdered mugs of blue and yellow.

She reached behind to draw a face in the steam,

sad against the sky.

No birds.

No clouds.

Just bright dividing lines

that shone through the blinds.

Licking the ends of your hair

with a tongue of tender light,

tattooing guides on your thighs.

Parallel shadows.

Vacant minds.

Skin laden with sleep,

warmed by the creeping dawn,

you lay with heads side by side.

Her palm on his chest;

she felt it rise and fall

in sedated intervals .

A purpled red print on bare flesh,

sticky as tar,

the mark of cain.

The sirens got louder.

The gun is on the floor.

Sunday Morning.

The window face cried

And cries for ever more.