The roses were on borrowed time,
nestled in nectar from the kitchen tap,
watching us from the mantle,
as I made an excuse to envelop you in my anxious arms again,
like a child with a blanket,
or a hopeless case with a last chance.
You wanted revenge, and I was your solitary soldier.
My guns were so peaceful, until they were not,
and you waved me off to another war,
stained with my scarlet kiss,
safe in your breast pocket as I severed the sweetest dreams,
clattering home with trophies and trinkets for my mistress.
The roses remained,
glowing with my youth as I yearned for you, from the door step.
With a flourish,
a frantic meeting of our much maligned lips,
I was home,
confessing my sins,
healing in your arms,
thrilled, once again, by your gratitude,
and all it’s gifts.
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