At the tender stage of relationships,
the hand offered, lips not kissed, the bloom
of inner soul tautly wrapped
just one more red rose bud to flame open,
women who are yearning for affection
see the bamboozle offered by the slick
as just one more abomination
to learn about love.
They show their distrust with scorn.
They attempt to cast their gaze away
but if touched lightly, as if dusted
with a light snow, they cease to struggle
as if they felt just, too, too cold.
They turn up lips, curious to see the taste
of someone kind, someone soft.
If cherished like every velvet petal of rose,
inhaled, enclosed, caressed, enraptured,
the relationship is no longer in doubt.