bu*terfly kissing you by the river, where it started.
Sandy strands of dishwater hair
and raspy whispers of cotton-picked fields,
off-white, under dry wind skies.
The sun visits you, shorelines undone,
waits on wading ankles in shivering pools,
just moving on (forget me not, dear).
God created bu*terfly kisses to ruin concentration,
land in you warmer than a whisper.
Like ivies come, comets break,
west turns north, sends you home.
The sun is just moving on.
Forget me not, dear.