Free-form poem for The Writing Project
I reach to grab the beloved rose
And the thorns dig into my hand
I pull away and watch the blood
Trickling down pale skin, pausing only a moment
As it touches each crease.
Is this love then? or merely consequence
Of the fervent passion
Between us two?
When I reach for you,
And your gentle caress coincides with the wrenching ache in my chest
Is this what I have dreamt of since I could think to dream?
Your silken petal grazing my lips, your sensual whispers in sweet drops of dew.
To feel the rip each time I grasp
Through your brambles, your jagged leaves
Only to find your bud still closed, not ready yet for the spring.
Not ready yet for me.
It aches, as the morning aches while the gray hides her light.
But even so, I will still wait,
Wait, because the sun was meant for the rose.