When to pluck the petals from the rose,
and your hair the bows.
To drop them into dispose,
as sweet satiny smells enclose,
that tickle with faint touch the nose.
The thin red silky soft strands,
their removal that yearning demands,
returned to the earth like falling sands.
Lifeless grains not held secure,
quick to escape the need so pure,
of love and freedom from the unsure,
the time and longing to endure.
The wait and when,
and the what then.
Feared questions of why,
and worried reply.
Fingers do ache,
for hands to take,
their hold of yours,
and pleasure to make.
To caress your hair,
and offer the rose.
To feel acceptance,
of what I propose.
To reach out and touch the fire,
inside of you that fuels my desire.
The waiting and wanting I quickly tire.
Waiting for my want to transpire.
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