A Cure For Butterflies
What do I do with your hands that are just warm on mine?
They are like fleece blankets rather than torn-up sheets that staunch countless bleedings.
Where instead of mangled scars,
You let me trace the veins on your strong arms
and smile shyly at my newfound hobby.
As if I don't know what to do with bruised and burned skin.
I can stitch you up more ways than I can count,
Closing ragged wounds in minutes,
Unblinking even as scarlet suddenly decorate my clothes.
But what do I do about this scarf you decided to wrap around us just because?
No book I read contained such protocols.
I have set bones, cracked, shattered, slinged.
But I don't know what to do when you bow and pull me in.
For a dance, for a sudden dip.
Is there a cure for playful butterfly wings?
Stuck in my middle.
What do I do with a man who I don't have to heal?
I have fought death back, love, my nerves are made of steel.
But somehow I don't know what to do when you bring me pomegranate tea.