I feel them brushing
against my face,
leaving gentle marks of powder
like the color on my cheeks,

my skin remembering their touch
again and
again and
then comes another: warm, soft;

it joins the others and
I wish I could catch them,

hold them,
pin them to cardboard
like butterflies.

Slow down!,
I want to enjoy
these words your mouth makes,
these words like warmth
like wind the silken touch of weathered wings

so when you tell me
I was right to be bitter
I will not hurt so loudly.