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One perfect rose, crushed between our bodies;
A fitting metaphor for love’s sweet agony.
When you told me it was over
I begged you for one last embrace,
For the sake of all that we shared.
These thorns are sharp;
Bred in a place with no name,
Grown to do more than draw blood.
Back arched, you cry aloud,
I moan with pleasure.
The magic thorns do their work.
You cannot move; I cannot move.
Silenced now we lie, impaled upon the thorns of ecstasy.
This night will never end.
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