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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