She calls you at end of day, to sit by her bedside as the mint freshly crushed for her tea whispers through the air to spread rumors of what it has seen on its way to those lips, the crimson bow that will tie the night’s suitor for seduction and surrender, for disposal in the obscure depth of her history or exile to another life. The unpredicted difference is your voice defining chapter or verse you wrote on the scroll you randomly bring to weave a mood, the never rejected offer from a sister-lover she will neither expel nor entomb, a gift brought for one or three, though you are never privy to the acts between two.