There are butterflies that
Lie in the arches of hip bones
Who wallow in their osteoclasts,
Climbing inside and breathing their
Mossy murmurs against the white
Scuttle of clay encased hands;
Your fingers always loved to
Wrap around my hip bones
And the butterflies inside them
Always kissed your calloused finger tips
Cocooning in your nail bed and
Crooning songs of worship
To the butterflies in your collarbone,
The tug of your lips gentle,
Pulling them slowly out of their
Paper thin sheaths and into
Your lungs
Where they crept into your alveoli
And nested in your heart.
I miss the way your bones clashed against mine
And the jangling of the monarch queens inside them
As they drank the nectar that lay
In the pores of our naked skin