Roses

Her kisses left

a rose-bled stain

on all the days where we had lain

in perfect sense,

in perfect pain,

in wonder how the world could gain

detesting every look we gave

and hand we squeezed

and lip we grazed

and heart we stole.

She kissed my soul,

and to the world she called:

"For one life,

we have roses

and we answer to nobody."