Here it is
the quivering dizzy little butterfly
the nauseous playful self
consciousness
that always
never hit before.
The stumbling alphabet
pouring from the top
broken violin strings of
the sweetest song you almost heard
forming in the pitiful of your
stomach.
Here it is
the mark of the prick
that drew red hot from ice
that cried green from gray
December falls
submits to the good graces
of a promised Eden.
The smirking scared bites
lip fulls of butterfly kisses
sensing the coagulation of
chemistry boiling below
wishing that these moments
suspended
while words were left
uninterrupted.
Frost heaves
slippery
clear
sweet
desire to hold you all night.
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