The One

I rarely ever picked roses,
brave a thorn
to show my love,
but there was one
I remember picking
on a cold February day,
in the front planter,
at The Hawks Prairie Inn;

I always looked
upon her confidently,
at a distance that was safe.
The uncomfortable close spaces
between us, remained hollow
only filled with imagination.

She was talking with friends
in the big field at lunch.
They looked toward me
sporadically, in moments passing.
She and them giggled together,
she started approaching me
confident, with an irresistible smile.
I, remained poised, yet nervous…
She started flirting
with light conversations
gradually turning seductive.
Honey flowed from her gloss lips;
Her: “can you quote a poem you wrote,
I hear you paint,
what do you like painting”
Me: “I mostly paint animals”
Her: “Have you ever painted people”
Me: “uh, umm, well”
Her: “Nudes (coy, velvet tone)
could I pose for you,
what mediums do you use,
do you finger paint…”

Evergreen trees towering
all around as we stood
talking vague ear-shots
from other students.
I was shaking inside,
my face bursting a warm red.
She was insanely beautiful,
practicing dreamy stares,
while tying invisible
strings to everything inside me

I was 18, still virgin;
Boyish innocence bleeding
through dark adolescence
like charred roses
with bright scarlet pedals
just beneath the pitch
of the burnt ones….