Rhodanthe

I peel the rose.
Each petal is velvet perfection,
supple and sweet as a
half-bloomed kitchen maid.
They fall like swooning wives at my feet.
The scent of skin and smooth curls
awakens the man in me.

I peel the rose,
kiss the center bud as pink and pert
as any breast I've ever suckled.
My tongue seeks every bit of dew,
every petal's edge.
I catch my fingertips on the stems.
The nips of eager thorn teeth boil my blood.

I peel the rose
and litter the bedside with
vibrant layers of rouge.
I can almost hear her gasping,
almost feel her moist acceptance.
The rose becomes her and disappears,
exhausts me with its allure.
I am spent, my deep desires
strewn in the darkness.

The rose peels me.