The rose is torn from your hands

     and all of the red scratches that run up and down the beige pink revealing

  flesh of man scarred by beauty,

        for one cannot consume the beauteous things we love                                      most people I 

never look at because the rose is more beautiful than the face

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        I sit idly by wanting to get off this phone

        to connect face to face of the woman

                                                                                                      I love

Who does not know I hold her in such high regard

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The thorns get pushed farther down my throat              cat scratches

             If we are roses

                             you bite and we bleed

Sharp words and painful looks from beautiful eyes

                              Is it love or just the idealistic hopes that the rose could be mine

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yet even roses demand freedom from your jaws