As a butterfly skitting across pollen-filled flowers
tickling them with lithe legs,
stealing nectar with thin kisses,
Muah and muah again,
until the pretty petals closed
and the color shone dimmer.
Until the Kadupul blossomed,
allowing something to open within,
a flower never sowed or known to be showed,
whose middle pistil opened without light,
and only appeared on the rarest of nights.
The kisses overpowered disinterest,
gilding the loneliness of dark,
the shared patterned process,
mimicking a clandestine courtship.
Numbing the senses,
guised under one color,
a fleeting, fortuitous kiss,
by the small, fleeting butterfly.
-Reamer