Your love is like a rose.
With each touch,
your thorns make me
Bleed.
My love, a deep red.
As deep and as the red as the Blood at the Cross, bleeding (and dying) for your sins.
Your love is like a rose.
I give you my light, my sunshine.
You grow before my eyes,
as you wilt in my hands.
I am your reservoir.
You drink.
And drink.
And drink.
And drink, until I run dry.
And still thirsty, you drink more.
Your love is like a rose in winter.
Grey, cold…lifeless.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
I am your gardener.
I see your beauty during the long, cold winter days and nights.
I value your nakedness, your vulnerability.
I am your protector.
Your love is like a rose.
You only know when to love when things are good.
That’s when you bloom, with your petals ruby-red,
as ruby-red as the Blood at the Cross.
Your love is like a rose.
Each day,
you dying
for…
your…
sins.
*This poem is not about a ‘Sarah.’ But the real Sarah, Sarah Haines, who challenged me to write this, my second poem, by giving me the opening line, “Your love is like a rose…” and told me to run with it. And to her I am, as the cliché goes, I am eternally grateful.