The hands have remained closed for so long

In the shape of fists

Pointing are stiff and tired

But there are no words

Of love or hate spelled on the whitened knuckles

Just the lines of age

And the tension of muscle and sinew pulled over bone

The veins that stand out on the back of hands

Nothing hidden

Nothing revealed

Yet the outstretched arms begin to shake

Gradually moving from the wrists up the arms

And that which is

Can be no longer

No longer be contained

The fists turn

And the sweaty hands gradually open

To reveal in the right hand

The strongest of the two

A host of butterflies

All beautiful despite being slightly tatty with chewed wings

Each was named

Guilt shame disease pain dirt filth and grime

Alongside anger denial disappointment distrust vanity

Loathing hate spite jealousy and covertness

All danced around the open hand

The most reluctant of the bunch who struggled to fly

Was fear

Whilst the other hand opened to reveal the biggest and most beautiful

Stretching and basking its wings

Slowly It lifts off and flies up and around

Gliding and swooning

High above the hand that once held it enjoying its release

Before finally returning

Resting on the shoulders of its

Former captor

Bathing in the light

Whilst the others one by one fade and die

That which returned remains and is called

LOVE