Sunday Morning

It’s the loose grooves
slow fingers, gently
sinking even further
into sleep, swaying
soft rain drumming against
a window pane, with no feeling
to go, we stay in bed.
Stuck in candlelight, warm breath
stirring in musty air
and reflections from
a muted TV in the corner
playing background music
of a violent and lonely world outside.
There’s no need to rush
we can go together
with fingers that touch the word...
forever.
We can go anywhere.

Eric Tang's Questions:

This is one of my few happy poems. I like it a lot, but, the last 5 lines bother me. I don't know, it seems like they just don't fit for some reason, not exactly the meaning but the language used. Let me know what you think.