Roses

long-stemmed and blood red,
twenty-seven years old  

most room, what bore
in my beating heart.

all of twelve, and a cake,
subtle sweet and hazelnutty;

Antoshka, quaint in name,
a Russian baker of Russian cakes.

one, lone, gentle caress, 
once-petal-now-bookmark;

having found an akin,
spirituality and sensibility.

circumstantial circumstances,
and despite the letting go;

left to dry on the wall 
sweetest, my chosen one.

I must, after all...

be more woman than spirit,
more body than soul.

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