Gunslinger and Rose

I've ridden across many wastes.
Never slowing, always yearning.
Urging my horse to move,
across spans, across eternity.
Waiting.
Ahead of me, the bleak background breaks against a form.
I struggled to breathe as I moved closer. 
A scream broke, 
and my gun was gone, 
I pulled a rose,
instead of iron.
Love instead of war,
the figure was beautiful.
Smiling I whispered,
"You can be my Bonnie,
If you'll let me be your Clyde."
Nodding, you took my hand.
I've been waiting, I said.
I know, you whispered.
I dreamt this a thousand times.
That someone would love me endlessly. 
And now we ride. Together.
And the storm rages.
All the world waits. 
For this song is ours.
This poem is ours. 
This rose, that I now hold is ours.