a rose for love
morning found me thinking that love is insufficient as a rose.
that beauty plucked from stem to thorns withers with petal falls.
the weary moon spoke and made its point last night, so loud
i refused to dream, i donned the dreariness of lengthening hours.
the sadness, too, was insufficient to atone my insufficiency.
i wanted to give you my feet, so i could carry you through fate.
i wanted to give you my eyes, my ear, my nose, my mouth.
i wanted to offer you my east, my north, my west and my south.
i wanted you to have them not as insufficient as a naked rose
that blooms in a barren and hushed room that we depart from.
not in the crevices of our dreams, in the cul-de-sacs of our mind.
not cloaked in the silence of our gazes, nor with voices truly ours.
here, now, i know, i am insufficient as an empty poem that spoke
tirelessly of insufficient regrets in the face of a lonely moon.
yet i go on, that one day, in a cold place strange from ours,
morning will find me thinking that love is sufficient as a rose.
