Poems by Rose

Nine Hours
 
Don’t promise me morning.
Don’t tell me you’ll stay.
I have learned what forever
can mean by midday.
 
Just let me lie here,
my head on your chest,
and borrow your heartbeat
to bargain for rest.
 
Let me listen—
that low, level sound,
your breath rising softly
while mine settles down.
 
Let your fingers move slowly
through strands of my hair;
let warmth be the language
that keeps me there.
 
Let me breathe you in—
clean soap against musk,
earthy and warm
in the hush before dusk;
 
that salt on your skin,
that soft, velvet trace—
a scent I can follow
to sleep in this place.
 
I don’t need your hunger.
I don’t need to be kissed.
Some nights, being wanted
is smaller than this.
 
I want skin without asking,
a hand without claim,
a body beside me
that quiets my name.
 
Because I am tired
of watching the doors,
of keeping one ear
on the creak of the floors;
 
of sleeping half-ready,
of waking too fast,
of carrying tomorrow
before night has passed.
 
So give me nine hours.
 
Nine hours to loosen
my fists from the fight.
Nine hours to lay down
my life for the night.
 
Nine hours where maybe
I matter to you,
where wanted feels almost
like something true.
 
Where your arms make a room
I don’t have to defend,
and for once I can rest
without watching the end.
 
I don’t need to know yet
if you’re gentle or good,
if daylight will find you
as tender as it should.
 
Tonight, I can make you
a man I can trust—
not because you have earned it,
but because I must rest.
 
For nine quiet hours,
I can soften my spine,
stop standing on guard
at the edge of my mind.
 
I can make-believe loved.
Make-believe adored.
Make-believe someone
would notice I’m worn.
 
Make-believe I am precious
without proving my worth;
that I don’t have to brace
for the drop back to earth.
 
And morning can have me—
 
the woman who wakes,
who gathers the pieces
and shoulders what breaks.
 
You may turn out cruel.
You may turn out kind.
You may already be gone
when I open my eyes.
 
The sheets may be empty.
Your heat may have fled.
 
But for nine hours, darling—
 
let me sleep
like nothing can hurt me
outside my head.




Equals
 
Do not worship me from down below,
then call the distance love.
Do not crown me, praise me, place me
somewhere safely up above.
 
I am not some sacred statue,
meant for staring, not for touch.
If you love me only from a distance,
then you do not love me much.
 
And do not rescue me from ruin
just to keep the rope you threw,
then drag it through each disagreement
as proof I once needed you.
 
Do not turn your help to leverage,
your mercy into debt.
Do not make me pay forever
for a hand I once accepted.
 
I have hauled my heart through hell before.
I know the weight of pain.
I have pieced myself together
without pedestal or chain.
 
So keep your pedestal and pity.
Keep your cape and keep your crown.
You may have to look to find me.
You may even look straight down—
 
but never mistake your angle
for a place above my own.
Height may change the line of vision;
it cannot make a throne.
 
And I will not walk behind you,
watching only where you lead,
nor race ahead and call it freedom
while you struggle to keep speed.
 
Your stride may stretch much farther.
Your legs may lengthen every mile.
You could leave me several steps behind
without meaning to awhile.
 
So slow enough to know me.
I will quicken when I can.
Not because one leads the other.
Not because you are the man.
 
Let our footsteps find a rhythm
neither has to force or fake.
Let us learn the pace between us,
give a little, gently take.
 
Hand in hand and side by side,
not one dragged and one adored.
No one following like a shadow.
No one carried like a lord.
 
No one worshiped.
No one rescued.
No one lesser.
No one more.
 
Not behind you.
Not before you.
 
Beside you—
 
step for step
toward whatever
waits beyond the door.




 

The Chair Beside Mine

 

I always saw the ending washed in gold,

two rocking chairs grown silvered side by side;

small feet across the yard, our stories told,

his hand in mine, with seventy years behind.

 

Perhaps that dream made emptiness my dread,

the second chair beside me bare and still;

so I made room for men who took instead,

and called it love because the chair was filled.

 

I learned too young that love could bruise and bless,

that care and cruelty answered to one name;

so later, when contempt arrived well-dressed,

the ache was new, but somehow felt the same.

 

I bore the splinters, softened every slight,

made space, made peace, made smaller what was mine;

for fear that I might face that porch one night

with only one old rocker keeping time.

 

Until the last man made the years feel thin,

as though his shadow drank the daylight dry;

and something—maybe mercy—broke within:

 

I saw how slowly living learns to die.

 

The fear remains; I will not call it gone,

but fear no longer chooses where I stay.

There are lonelier things than rocking alone:

to sit beside a man and fade away.

 

I still can see small feet across the lawn,

two chairs, two hands, the dusk we earned in time.

I have not lost the dream; I’ve only drawn

a line around the life that must be mine.

 

So let the second rocker wait for one

whose presence does not ask my light to dim;

who comes with warmth enough to meet the sun,

not hungry for the life I’d pour in him.

 

And if I reach that porch with one chair bare,

I’ll know I kept the life that brought me there.

 

Far better one chair empty by my side

than fill it—

 

and leave myself behind.

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Already Whole

 

Come to me whole, with a life fully grown,

with passions we share and some kept as your own;

not looking for someone to fill every part—

bring me a full life and an open heart.

 

Be worldly and curious, capable, kind,

with purpose, ambition, and breadth in your mind;

be steady through setbacks, accomplished with grace,

and proud of the life you have built at your pace.

 

Be loyal in private, where no one can see;

let conduct, not speeches, make promises to me.

Bring romance and hunger, with patience your guide;

let actions speak plainly where promises hide.

 

Know that my daughter is part of my heart;

to choose me means knowing we do not come apart.

Let welcome be warm, unmistakable, clear;

she should never wonder if she’s wanted here.

 

When it is my hour, let me stand in the light;

stand proud at my side without claiming the night.

When yours comes, I’ll gladly give you the same—

two separate fires, one steady flame.

 

And when we are gray, rocking side by side,

with grandchildren laughing and racing outside,

we’ll smile at old stories through soft, grateful tears,

then cherish the life we have built through the years.

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Heirloom Heart

 

I hung where morning learned to fashion dew,

And afternoons grew amber on the vine;

The patient Sun, with every hour it drew,

Persuaded flesh to sweeten into time.

 

The crows came. Summer beetles burrowed deep.

The thorny stems reached out with ageless art.

They traced their restless signatures to keep

Their crimson script upon my yielding Heart.

 

For Love is not the bloom that wakes in Spring,

Then sheds its crimson at the season’s close.

It is the quiet ripening of a thing

Whose deepest beauty only patience knows.

 

I did not hurry daylight from the sky,

Nor beg the rain to fall before its hour.

The vine was never measured by its why,

But by its unseen, faithful, upward power.

 

And so, if I should place this Heart in yours,

Receive it as the Garden first received:

Not for the flawless skin that it endures,

But for the life beneath it that believed.

 

Should this Heart one day be mine to give,

Take not the fruit alone into your hand;

Receive the seasons teaching it to live,

And all the patient love that shaped the land.

 

The world has pecked where tenderness was found,

Has left its little evidence behind;

Yet every scar became a sweeter ground

Where Love rooted deeper through the rind.

 

So hold Her gently.

 

Not because She breaks—

 

But because every living heart is grown,

And what is cherished slowly always takes

Far longer to become than to be known.

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