In fragments fine, a masterpiece of glass,
A vase, once whole, now missing its sweet rose.
Splintered beauty, memories of the past,
Yearning for the bloom that loves once choose.
Beneath the moon, where rose petals have flown,
A cold wind has blown, their path unknown.
In dirt I stay in yearning, I pray,
That you might chance to cuddle where I lay.
Skin on skin, an intimate ballet,
Connection sought in a world astray.
Not the heated piety of fleeting sex,
But solace of closeness, the tender context.
The Old Blog in the Desert 