He told the rose, "You're
dangerous," many times
that day - for she always
carried a passport in her bag
and a ready yes on her face.
He could easily snap her stem
from its branch. She wanted
plucked, and stuck permanently
close in the empty buttonhole
of some gentleman's jacket.
He bent down often
to smell the rose, knowing
she couldn't be his. He left
her fragrance blooming for
another to pick and carry
close to his chest for life.
He remembers this rose
whose faint perfume still
curls around his songs, tickles
his dreams, and whispers
his poetry awake.
1 comment:
Perhaps "the rose" is the more generous with her charms.
Lovely.
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