I want to catch a butterfly.
A pretty little butterfly,
Delicate, Beautiful, curving, intense, vibrant.

But not trapped in a net.
She chooses my rough hand,
Rather than a rich flower to provide for her.
Not a conservative or vain butterfly.
Not one that flutters around you,
But has an aversion to touch.

A butterfly that longs to be admired,
In all her beauty,
Only by me.
To land on MY hand,
Let ME stroke her wings,
With rough, sullying fingers.
Beckoning me, 
With her soft fluttering,
And as I stroke,
Opening willingly to my touch.

Just a little at first,
Sensitive and nervous,
But as I respond with care
To her beckoning colours,
She opens wide,
So I can caress her delicate, vulnerable wings,
And play.
Until her colours stain my hand,
And she is tired,
And we rest together.

My dirty little butterfly.