I'm a button.
Plain. Inane.
The shirt, the frock,
silk or cotton
they call me a pain.

The thread of colors
Tempts me all right.
And then I'm held
in crisscross layers,
Helplessly uptight.

I make it a promise
to snip off and roll down
the clutches of the thread,
and make my way
into the refuge of
The supple fingertips
The dulcet touch
of your blessed hands,
without even frowning,
without a ping.
Even if it means
being stitched back again
into the piece of dull clothing,
a thousand times over.