A thousand butterflies

Though it is hard to describe all the ways
You make my skin ignite from head-to-toe;
I hope my quiet blush always relays
The love I'm feeling, when I'm pleased to show
Each of the thousand pin-pricks on my skin,
The butterflies that dance so in my throat:
It's lovely; it's intense; can I begin
To have you know the feelings you promote?
For, if there's anguish in this pain, I sense
The hurt's exquisite; you can be assured
That every stabbing wound is recompense;
This is an illness that cannot be cured:
You shake me, take me with each diatribe
In ways that are too complex to describe.