Usually twelve is the number that's wished for
in February on the fourteenth day.
Those thorn veined stems, topped with silken love,
speak silently all that we need to say.
But I never wait for a dozen roses,
as I always anticipate our thirteen.
Along with the words I know well as prose -
'Because I love you more than twelve.'
You throw snowballs at the office window and
into the deep end my heart dives.
Swimming through laughs with my year twelve girls,
who just witness a small part of our lives.
Flurries of fate catapult high,
connecting us with the front door closed.
I know it's still a whole thirty days away,
yet my mind glows with thought of my extra rose.
However, before my hand could clutch this year,
my heart's desires were somehow prevented.
My silken loves left dismissed, charred remains.
Sellotaping my heart is futile, I'm simply tormented.
And though it's hard to find myself right now,
I find comfort in my quote engraved soul.
Charred ink binding back once severed veins,
writing my heart cautiously back to a whole.
It goes both ways, you need to know,
'I'll always love you more than twelve.'