Michael’s Garden

I wake early to taste the night’s tears
gathered on roses in Michael’s garden.
Red roses for passion.
Cold toes curled in regret.
A silk robe
snatched around nakedness.
And the dew drop tastes…of nothing.
A wind spills others to the ground,
silent tears.
The roses shiver and warm to the sun.
Michaels wakes and watches me.
He traces a tear. “Come back.”
To bed we go.
So easily does passion surrender and burn,
and the night’s tears dry.

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