We go out to dinner, strangers. Before this I did not know you and I don’t know you now. I sit across from you gazing at someone I may know in weeks or never see again after tonight and I don’t know if I’m intrigued or lost. I’ve sat across this table before, with a stranger who became a lover and I didn’t know him. I didn’t know who he would become or what he would mean to me and before I knew it he had grown into my heart. A rose from concrete he latched onto flesh with thorns so deeply attached that tweezers could not remove. Beautifully painful right? Your eyes are so deeply mesmerized by the color of the rose that you don’t feel it, it coils around you, stem caressing the ground but already rooted. I don’t know you. I don’t know who you’ll be after tonight. The brilliance of your petals has already entranced me so fuck your thorns and the fact that some of your petals are off because I don’t know you. See the theme here is that I don’t know you. I am not capable of assessing the damage that you could potentially do and all your dangerous attributes are so silent that I don’t know if I hear them, or at least thats what I’m telling myself. So I’ll take you out of the ground, in my nurturing way and place you in water knowing that you’ll wilt in my misplaced efforts, but not acknowledging the fact that a dead rose has found it’s way into my house.