It remains a stinger

The hex hurts. Whether cast at the apogee of zest or while stranded at a foreign airport your plane stuck in the snow, it remains a stinger. Just as cupid's arrows e'er prick with love. Yet the context chuffs you on your bum shoulder. It is the act that fancies interpretation. It is the rest that is as it is. A maelstrom makes you smile, when I trace it on your tiny belly.