That Which Remains

When the air of freshly washed man
  fails to turn my nose in its direction,
When the shoulder shaking beat of drums
  begs not for dancing, but ear protection,
When the zest of spice irritates, rather than
  piques another taste from my tongue,
When a suggestive glance begets a squint,
  from eyes no longer so young,
I will not allow a sensual calm
  to preempt expectations of a passionate life,
As I trust the brush of your lips on my palm
  will still thrill: I remain, Your Wife.

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