The Pink Room

This poem has followed me to every blog.

The Pink Room

I am remembering the white-tiled floor,
the rose-pink walls shadowed by dying light,
while we wrapped naked behind closed doors,
as rain murmured to your moans at passion's height.
I think those walls might remember them still:
the things we whispered, lying there entwined,
that the silent louvres, masked by curtains, will
echo secrets we left floating behind.
How true were those glistening beads of sweat,
the careless words we could have left unsaid?
Could there be reason fluttering there yet
to lead us again to that uncommon bed?
The trusting heart bleeds and suffers the pain
of lust in love's guise again and again.

é Princeton Ebanks 2006