Burnish

Shellfish-star friend, name like a flower,
I like seeing you.
Over two slender knuckles
you're wearing a stick of gold.
Pow!
But it's quite clear, in how you touch that shoulder,
tender, without hesitation,
that you've disarmed.
Like a color on a butterfly
or a marking on some other prey
that over time, and circumstance,
(and something else,
something you did,
what was it?)
adapted through disuse
into ornament.
Uniform into costume,
weapon into custom.
When we were half the ages we are now you were so sad!
Now of the habit of hurt,
just elegance remains.
Lovely mysterious inside-out
you-more you.
One day all the scraping stops
and you're glossy.