Who's my Rose?

If you ask who she is,
which words could I use
others haven't yet?
Would you want to know
she makes me speechless?
Probably not.
So, what else to say?

I grow her roses
to make her feel at home
now and then
hand in hand
tourists to this growing land
of innocent pale,
bloody red and sunset blots,
varying in colors
like her moods.
She stops my picking hand,
tells me about thorns
to be handled with care,
beauty the most
if wild and free,
allowed a whole life
pregnant with promise,
a shy first glimpse
becoming conscious
and flirty with those flying by,
finding a momentary home
until no more.

The Gamer Girl
who trapped me in her play
and is always in my back,
blows me away
whenever she can,
hits my mind
with her idea gun,
and steals my heart
every day.
When I'm on the ground
she revives me with ease
to start all over again.

Sometimes Rock Chick,
but always first to reach out
and turn up the volume
when the lyrics go mad
love, love, love
is a killer
dressed in black.
Bows to the King
and doesn't fear the reaper,
more bookworm than me,
but, oh Miss Fortune,
in the far end corner of the study,
fallen for the voice of the one reading.

First audience
to look over my shoulder,
grants me previews
of what's to come,
the only one allowed
behind the scenes,
I'm her groupie and biggest fan.
Sharp brushes between her fingers,
hands me pencils generously
...where is this rubb..eraser again?
The last one still clapping,
even if it's just the back of my head,
or further down.
If no one's laughing,
she, at least, rolls her eyes.

Isn't she a dream?
in the middle of the night
her sneaky hand
comes for a visit
exploring
the wild bushes
soft silk skin her destiny,
and then
holds
my
nose
'You snore!'
She, the brigand-o-blanket
mid-winter cooling pad
hi-summer heating source
bringer of...

...enough said.

You now see what
I've never been good with,
but these few words tell more
a picture ever could.