Butterfly stamps bleed down her wrists
as she washes away from the afternoon mud,
but last night lingers with voicemails
from dance partners on her phone.
She finds friends in the dandelions
and plucks them to place around her kitchen table.
Doesn’t want to drink her tea alone
and their yellow spikes help stimulate
her appetite to live.
She digests each petal for a history
for her fingertips to ink out a story.
Yellow marks her daydreams
until they sprout wings into tiny butterflies.
They rest upon her wrists
like the neon lights flickering
from the club’s doorway.
She watches everyone dancer flicker and flit
across the floor and the yellow lights
capture their faces for her to memorize