a strand of your hair

thankfully,

home

is as we left it.

the scent of coffee long

ago brewed.

there is the sofa 

with the imprint of me,

the imprint

of you.

the cups

and saucers

still waiting for the sink,

the newspapers

not viewed.

open books, and letters

on the made

bed.

pillows propped

just so.

the window is

open

to let in the spring air.

it's home.

it's not much to others

but to you,

it's gold, and over there,

there's a strand

of golden hair, yours

i suppose.