butter fingers

your drinks water the grass,

and you tend to share 

your meals with ants.

butter fingers, i say.

and when it makes you smile,

i am enamored by both your beauty

and terrible sense of humor.

those are my fondest memories.

your fingers hesitantly lace through mine,

tightly wrapping around my knuckles,

giving them a weak, brief squeeze.

i glance at you, your eyes unable to meet mine.

you break away

just as quickly,

carefully shifting your hand

back onto your lap.

butter fingers,

you say.

a stunning uneasy smile

pierces the words through me.