Butterflies sleep inside her collarbones.
I have seen them dreaming.
It looks like a sunset painting itself across her shoulders.
She walks like leaves rustling.
Her body is a flowerbed.
When I touch her skin,
I know that I must have been a tree once.
It is the only way I could have learned
The patience it takes
To go about a day,
Doing anything
Other than
Touch her.