I suppose the butterflies in my stomach
are yours now.
I'll give them to you
as soon as I binge on her photographs
purge until our smiles match
and they fly away, to resurrect in the eyes
of someone with a hope ever being that close to her.
Butterflies play in the sunflower's of royal gardens.
I'm meant for moths but they never live as long
and they hurt coming up but I smiled all the way through.
There is nothing logical about love.
It stutters when you look her in the face,
when she chats with you on Facebook about the guy she has eyes for.
I suppose this vocal tick
belongs to you now, too.