Black Rose

She's a killer,
femme fatale.
I doubt she was drawn that way.
It's survival but that makes it worse,
perhaps.

Her aroma is ambrosia,
her taste the same.
It's her feel that's greater.
The magic in-between.
Houses of pleasure,
reserves of honey,
An overflow.

I feel her.
Beyond the biting, riding,
build-up, shudders and shivers.
She's rooted and whole. I see it.
Her thorns won't be there forever,
none of ours will.
And that's more satisfying than anything.