Inga

The crimson blossom
of a bleeding rose,
cringing ever so slightly
beneath the stark, brittle light 
of a winter moon.
A collection of white flakes
gathering, clinging, comforting 
the lone stem
with a lone thorn
in cold company.
The petals not yet in full bloom
wondering, deliberating, swaying
beneath the onus of their world.
Her lips beckoned with this plea,
And I consumed them with insatiable eyes.


Deep, never-ending brown
and soft,
like a puppy.
I could curl up and cuddle with her eyes forever.


"I want to heal." 
She poured her words over me
like a godly libation 
of purest blood red wine.
Her words whispered 
and drifted 
and dripped
and rocked softly over me
and echoed in my soul.

Back where you came from