Morning found me thinking that love is insufficient as a rose.
That beauty plucked from stem to thorns withers with petal falls.
The weary moon spoke and made its point last night, so loud
I refused to dream, I donned the dreariness of lengthening hours.

The sadness, too, was insufficient to atone my insufficiency.
I wanted to give you my feet, so i could carry you through fate.
I wanted to give you my eyes, my ear, my nose, my mouth.
I wanted to offer you my east, my north, my west and my south.

I wanted you to have them not as insufficient as a n*ked rose
that blooms in a barren and hushed room that we depart from.
Not in the crevices of our dreams, in the cul-de-sacs of our mind.
Not cloaked in the silence of our gazes, nor with voices truly ours.

Here, now, i know, i am insufficient as an empty poem that spoke
tirelessly of insufficient regrets in the face of a lonely moon.
Yet I go on, that one day, in a cold place strange from ours,
morning will find me thinking that love is sufficient as a rose.