The Rose

I figure I best describe what most women want in a man, she wants from the rose.

I love flowers. I love looking at them, running through fields of them.
Receiving them and caring for them.
But roses, well roses are special.
Especially those ever-stunning deep red ones.

Anyway back to what I want in a man, wait.... in a rose. Yes.

I don't want a dozen, or half for that matter.
Just one healthy perfect, long stemmed, thorn-free Looker.
I don't want one that's too clammed up as I love the process of watching one bloom,
and I want one which have a natural openness about it.
I promise to pamper you, Rose... water you, stare at you and sing to you...
just so you'll open up for me. Spread to all your glory.

Catching a glimpse of you in my living room makes me smile.
And I often want to color your petals with the redness of my lips.
When I breeze you across my face, I want you to smell sweet.
Of meadows and spring kisses.
Yet I acknowledge the complexity of your beauty and the delicacy of your being.

You don't often find a near perfect rose but you always remember it.
And same goes for that perfect man.