what a rose,
he, henry.

what a rose,
with cotton thorns.

cotton touch,
and lips of wine,
how i wish
he could be mine.

what a glance,
his eyes of pine,
let’s share a dance,
please, don’t be shy.

a twist, a turn,
and down the hill,
it heats, the burn,
it always will.

what a rose,
a rose that’s bending.

bending,
with my every touch,

it is time i stop pretending
no one could carry disaster such.