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.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral:
Will you cry, as my body sinks into a sexless bed?
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