Butterflies

blew the dust from her flesh. Kissed the lattice of her denier. Rolled them slowly down with lips, loneliness and its shadow as one. From grainy pixels to real warmth, the longing now dying like greenwich mean time and mocking equators. Her exposure quakes my hungering fingers, which once held quills that wrote of love, and now hold the very essance of it. Writing my desire in clear ink, waxing us as we move in fusion, real touch born from cadavers of dreams. I say unto her 'we are here my love' Hands click through glass mitten, telling us the earth is turning carving the valley through our bed as star spangled banners move westward in the english wind, like lovers in a hotel duvet saying goodbye in glances to meet again not as moths in borrowed silk but as butterflies in seasons of the afterlife.