A single white rose proposed as a question
Never receiving a reply, though needless to mention, in fact
Perhaps the response of her cheeks flushed,
with a dazzling toothy grin was enough,
For me, with open arms, to incline a proposed sin
In what once was a Precious Garden.
Allow me to retrace my inquisitive exposition,
Attempting to tip-toe a clog in my throat, a schism,
Sticky, Syrupy, Bittersweet
Staring off into the night sky darkness with wind whipping across the wharf
Back and Forth and Back and Forth
To try to speak, to introduce in too close quarters
Having already begun lucidly dissolving borders
Her hand brushes my shoulder, as we turn to stone.