XLII morbid osteology

When all else has decayed expect our bones,
Our skeletons will lie quite peacefully
Together in the dark, our ever home,
To dream demurely for eternity.
Then we will conjure up pleasures once led
With skin and flesh and wandering lips and sighs,
That every bone will blush a glowing red
Pulsing with memories of our old delights.
Some archeologists will be confused,
Some day long hence when stumbling on our tomb,
Confronted by our rosey light, bemused,
By the lingering scent of some perfume
      Of rain and orchards ripe under the sun,
       But we will give our secret up to none.