it is in the brambles of love
do I find my heart caught
on certain small thorns from those
blossoming rosebuds
that scent so sweetly
and center kiss
at dusk
before closing up tight I am
(only)
tugging at thorns in the dark:
my blood is the same hue

I couldn't pluck the rose
no matter how much I would love
to watch it drink at my table
to smell its wide open
but if the rose were to pluck me
I'd happily sing till my last petal
fell velvet sweet death