It is a little death to deny a little death
Scraping against the pleasures of the flesh
Stretched thin like waxy alabaster
Some objet d'art which once was strewn
Across the room and casts a shadow now
In the dust that clung to the folds in the robes
Though the vase with the peonies never moved
The peony has left his mark against my throat
And nymphoid, kissed, gave pleasure
Rose, quietly brushed off his clothes
Let soft things fall from soft hands
Leaving them marking his displeasure