When She Called Me Her RoseĀ 

She called me her rose.
I blushed,
red as warning signs
to cease activity
but my smile
was rebellious to heed;
her heart,
a precarious beat
skipping capriciously
into rhythms that rhymed
with all things broken.
At the very least
the end of us would be
a harmonized tragedy.

Trust,
it is not that my soul
has ceased to be enamored
by the fragrance of your affection,
the virtues in your spine
I pine to hold,
the truth on your lips
I resign to sip,
the modesty of your hips
to my eyes you’ve sold,
but I can’t help but fold
when our hands,
in origami-like embrace,
still cause my pulse to race
in a ghost lap of promises
and intentions,
you trust these feeble hands
not to break.

Trust,
it is not
my lack of confidence in you
but rather in me.
Tell me,
how do you trust
a heart to nurture love
when it’s soil
has only experienced the toils
of failure,
disloyalty and abandonment?

Truth is,
I’m more prepared
to watch you stop tilling,
drop the plow,
run out of the rain
into the comfort
of someone else’s arms
where I’ll witness you flourish,
in the hands of a man
that has noticed
every cut,
scrape,
or wound
for a thorn
is masked by the beauty
of its roses.