You seek a love
patterned in roses that
tremble at a touch
and open
and close
in tune as you
bud and bloom
in crowded rooms.

My love would
prune—young buds in
sharp blood.
Blind roaming eyes
and pierce wandering palms
that stop for a
moment’s curiosity.

You do wrong
to seek freedom in
a garden full of thorns
that would take your screams
as passion, and see you
bled dry
before it would
set you free.