Tonight your hands slither down the mountains of my breasts.
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining,
as the brown threads of your hair weave a nest around my thighs.
The earth is lush as a fine wine,
tinted red like hennaed-hair - my hands
undulate into your softness,
mounds of hair beneath my fingers.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine,
as you dig into the mounds of my body.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral, as my body sinks into a sexless bed,
will you cry?
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