the curves of the spaces between our thighs formed diamond shapes on satin sheets;
you picked the sand grains from my cheeks like a virgin picking dandelions in spring,
and the blood stained our bodies, a crimson warmth seeping from my body,
your arms enveloped me like clouds - soft and insubstantial.
I broke the china cooking our first breakfast - an omelette of rotting eggs,
the scent of zahatar invading our nostrils, shards got stuck between my toes,
and I sensed the anger peeking out from between your laughing teeth.
You were younger then, but your beard was still flecked with grey,
whereas his was the color of the sand that sprinkled our first night together;
when I woke up, my golden nose-ring was gone.
But his lips were softer than your satin sheets,
and my thighs were marble pillars to his granite statue,
finely chiseled fingers invading the chasms between me,
and soon my nose-ring was joined by onyx bells and marble earrings.
Your palms left red marks on my cheeks that reminded me of berry-stains, or blood.
"You will soon feel blood", you said, in between mouthfuls of oregano omelette,
sipping from our new set of crystal glasses. I sprinkled flowers on our bed,
but you never came. I could hear you shining your sword.
The nights are colder now; roses have begun to fade in the garden,
and my statue is now a permanent fixture in the museum of a woman
who is studded with diamonds: She has mounted him on the pedestal of a silken bed.
I touch my cheeks, savoring the places where I once felt your fingers,
colder than winter soil, harder than the stones that line the pathway to the garden,
wishing that, like china or crystal, I had the power to shatter,
rather than remain silently whole on satin sheets, where my skin burns
in the absence of your shadow.
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