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.