butterfly

by Raine Wynd

she flutters on my hand
delicate, shivering, unsteady
shuddering at my touch
every breath is a half-choked plea
she curses me even as she delights
at the things my fingers are doing
she is a sonnet to pleasure
a syncopated rhythm of passion
matched to my every move
still i know how long
i can hold her this way
before she flies