waltzing for roses, you brush against my cheek,
thinking I’ll not notice, my mind is so far;
thorns discounted till we’ve gained the prize:
your touch draws me on, until first daylight,
we waltz in the sheets, like a virgin’s first dance,
petal soft turns electric, then you start to pant
as I bear you along, on waves of raw silk;
my wound is your pleasure; and you are my milk.
waltzing for roses
