Anjoli had the flawless supple breasts of a young Bedouin gypsy,
As warm as a summer night, as alluring as the glow of the moon.
Her dark, creamy thighs could grip like a vise in throes of lust,
With her robust hips grinding and humping her way to Nirvana.
When she sighed, even in whispers, the room echoed her song.
Her desires were boundless, her zeal never faded for an instant.
She made love anytime, anywhere, at the whisper of the word.
She became filled with passion when I merely spoke her name.
 
There is a secluded beach in Morocco, uncluttered by tourists,
Where the sand bears faint impressions of her heart-shaped ass.
There is a wire fence in Mexico, amid a field of tall grasses,
Which holds strands of her hair -- caught there in carnal fervor.
There is a soft bed at a motel in New York, if not yet replaced,
Which bears the white stains from our first night together.
Rose petals litter our own bed from our last intimacy shared.
Now withered and dry, they only serve to remind me of death.
 
I can no longer sleep in the bed that we shared for ten years.
A touch of her lipstick is imprinted on the linen of my pillow,
The gown she last wore, and stripped off in ecstasy that night,
Still clings to the chair -- flung there in her haste to please me.
An echo of her luscious form still lays curvacious in the padding.
Most heart-wrenching of all traces, one I long to obliterate;
The blood-stained sheet, spotted brown with passing time,
Used to cover her face after a gunman's bullet had found her.
...

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Ophelia's Muse Established 05.01