Fingers, Wings, and Pickled Butterfly Laughter
Weak wintry sunlight slipped through the window
& found the place where our fingers shared matching band-aids.
I can barely stand the stiffness of it healing.
It's stopped bleeding (I hope)
but its empty throbbing has yet to feel.
Jokes half-whole came easy
beside the mouth of the furnace.
Your laugh makes the open sky nervous
(robs it of it's cold)
I want to catch it,
cup a mason jar to your quivering chin,
keep that rocking chuckle like a firefly in a jar.
I bet its sound would continue to flicker days before the wings get tired.
Our fingertips share the same nicked affliction.
The healing is stiff,
but still, we make the most of November's sun
and buying your laughter with words so light
is like trading dust for butterflies.
Your laughter is like butter,
spreads rich through darkness
we melt into sighing
& smooth over the topography of breathing.
Things don't always go as planned.
Skin cracks & leaves purple spots on the fingers.
Dust rushes into the mouth;
the air is too tight for words.