my lips caress
the curves of
your breasts
and every moan
that escapes your mouth
drowns out the sound
of the trumpets
announcing his departure
as he rides into
goddess knows
which battle to write
history with
his sword;
you and i– the
forgotten begums
trace our present
on each other’s body
with our
fingers.
his armour shakes
with the heat of murder;
our bed, with the
song of our love.
he will die tonight
but it will be you and me
who knock on
the doors of heaven.
