A silken dark rose in the crisp sheen of midnight.
I was careful not to touch the thorns.
Tonight, we achieved a breakthrough.
An open dialogue between a future and its history.
Her taste was like refined molasses, defined by just a taste.
Her scent was a summer’s wind, a sensory mirage.
Each passing breeze captivated the senses, yet it made none.
This deep into the season’s touch and no bloom, no growth, no roots.
A past, presently without a future, we should all be careful not to touch.
No hips.
No seeds.
An effort unrequited.
An underestimation to say the least.
An armored and impenetrable inner self.
A magnificence untouched.
Never to be known.
