Hunting Butterflies

Hunting Butterflies
She looks so beautiful
with painted pain and smoky eyes.
she has died inside years ago
and I am left wondering
about the blossom of this beauties youth.
Her hands, magic in my lap
don’t hesitate in their dance.
I am all butterflies, she is still and quiet,
moving, moving, moving
her tenured fingers up and down.
A ten dollar date, no roses needed.
Her beautiful pain creased in a smile
as she slips out my car, back to the night
hunting more butterflies.