Once before, under starlight, I passed your home. You too were looking up, up in the night sky, there, through that window where the roses fall from the tresses.
I looked up but my eyes were caught by your beauty, and by something in your expressions, something I can’t quite name. You were a picture of desire. I desired you, but you, you also, seemed to be the very essence of longing there in the roses staring up at the stars.
What are roses to your lips, or the stars to your eyes, or the pleasures of night without you?
