Later,
much later, I fondle each
moment
as if it were a pinned butterfly, and I feared
to brush the iridescence from its wings.
Sweat mingled slick between us,
your hand clamped on my forearm,
you flip me over with ease and
hastily knee my thighs apart;
palms in the napes of my knees,
you pause at the vestibule, marking the moment.
I want each instant in amber—rich,
spice-rare, and golden. |
"Dancing
in the Butterflies" Digital Media
by Margarita Yerastova
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