I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.