His hands would flap like wings whenever he told stories.
And hang semi conscious when alone.
His fingers would curl - like plastic when heated. Our fists then meet in kinship.
He alters reality, with nail’s - trimmed for flight
His palms bear the pressure of life. I hear its sound in every touch
The rustle of his next brain wave.
The grip of determination
The silence of nerves
His hands have matured - growing into the new.
Dousing the air with colours, each swerve, each strike.
The wind, hanging on for dear life
He soars – higher than he did before - my eyes
Water through its stare
His hands, would flap like wings
I call him butterfly.
Through his stories, I breathe new life.