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