Butterfly, butterfly
On my arm
You're no use to me
I only ask
For you are the creation
Of the one I love
Her hands held the marker
That graced my skin
An indirect whisper of skin against skin
Little butterfly
Though useless you may be
You are perfection
From the tips of your antennae
To the bottom of your wings
And the swooping pattern in between
Imagined and concocted
Made by the hands
Of god herself
Delicate butterfly
You hold her essence
In your dark lines
At night I close my eyes
Trace your shape
With my fingertips
Though you don't stop the blood
Little butterfly
I still love you
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Butterfly, butterfly
On my arm
You're no use to me
I only ask
For you are the creation
Of the one I love
Her hands held the marker
That graced my skin
An indirect whisper of skin against skin
Little butterfly
Though useless you may be
You are perfection
From the tips of your antennae
To the bottom of your wings
And the swooping pattern in between
Imagined and concocted
Made by the hands
Of god herself
Delicate butterfly
You hold her essence
In your dark lines
At night I close my eyes
Trace your shape
With my fingertips
Though you don't stop the blood
Little butterfly
I still love you
Dedicated to Dora, who draws a butterfly on my arm, but doesn't know that I only ask for it because it reminds me of her.
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