Those Buttons

My mistakes are like the buttons of your shirt Clothing the contours of your chest, Keeping together the veil Which styles your shame Occasionally you let them be, For the wind to ruffle the frail curls. Every morning before work, Carefully pass them through the slits of the edge And my mistakes are aroused with your touch, If you ever peep through them, All you can see is skin And no heart. My mistakes will be stitched forever it seems Unless you throw your shirts away And find another woman to undo your buttons.