I am not a perfect rose;
I am not pristine glass;
I am not a white page;
I am not April’s favorite day.
My thorns will cut you deep;
my glass will break your reach,
yet, my heart is open for you to enter as you please.
My list of errors runs long –
it cannot be erased,
but do not lock me out –
Monday’s mistake was a step in the dark.
My eyes rain too often with drops that drown your heart –
I cannot always be on high;
even the reddest petals wither and fall.
I regret my distance;
all my reckless ways –
I was a child,
walking by your side;
unable to stand a looming separation.
I cannot go on walking in a daze ‘round these brick walls;
without you, my winds have no direction;
without you, my flames have no inspiration.
I will wait these seven days –
I will wait until the last star fades,
for your smile to return to my page,
for your arms to welcome me back to your days.