I gave her a rose back in December.
It charmed me to learn that she cared to remember.
There it sat, a bud yet to bloom
Atop her dresser in her bedroom,
For over a month gathering dust;
Our pleasures together swelling in trust.
Her words, on any mention of an us
Were carefully chosen to avoid a fuss.
Instead her actions drew me more close
Scattered and random, but never verbose.
My heart was seeking out all the clues
To know my risks wouldn't bear the blues.
The clues were many, soft and subtle and quiet.
The bond between us strengthening tight.
We both were warned on the front end of this
There may be no future, despite the bliss.
How could such a fling be expected to pass
When foundations of trust are meant to last?
Her words confirming us were so very few,
But I cannot discount all she would do.
From the simplest touch a joy would spring;
Discussions of moebius much more would bring.
We'd walk away from each other each day;
Reclaim our own lives, because we had faith
That more tomorrows would always be there
For our bodies and minds to once again share.
Built on subtleties such as her time,
An extra pillow, hot chocolate, sublime.
Histories revealed, failures explored.
Respectful beginning we slowly took forward.
What did all these things mean,
From your smile, your perceptions keen,
Open invitations into your world,
That revelation to intend me your girl?
You have succeeded in gaining my devotion
But now the distance is wide as the ocean.
Your response, as I seek answers from you,
Seethes at my notion that such is my due.
I mustn't expect of, from, with you anything.
In other words, abandon the act of trusting.
You won't even refuse a future with me,
Your word of choice: "possibility."
Joy one minute that you keep me in tow;
Anger or pain the next, each cutting slow.
Each part of you that I was free to touch
Has disappeared forever? Or stuffed in a hutch?
You want me to be myself, be real.
To do so requires inside that I feel.
I've learned to contain expressions of this.
But what you have now is suppression of Chris.
The anger I feel is to you and I.
To you, of course, for pulling me nigh;
Making me free to be part of you.
And to me, for relenting on cue.
This cavern dividing me must start to close.
But... is it still there, that little rose?