Why do you frighten me so?
You are but a delicate rose.
Your thorns have withered and fell,
and yet still,
I dare not risk your touch.
Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;
a stimulating sensation.
Your fragile elegance begs of me
I could run my fingers across your leaves,
and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,
but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.
I fall to my knees and shrink.
In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you
more than ever before.
One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.
I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,
but I know today is not the day.
I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret
That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.