They cling to your name; rose.
They mark your tears and fear
of protests, protruding
like their desire to have you
slipped past my grip. Your image,
your scent is unjustly treating
me as martyr who breaks
vows worn 'round his finger. Who falls,
folds his heart and eyes, but not much
to keep resentment. Who longs to take
a dip with you in deeper sea
of blankets moistened by sweat
of your struggled movements
evoking fire and innocence.
Who has lost his limits. Lie on me,
rose, let me pluck those thorns.
Gently, let me.