Warm butterflies
Half-manic in pink hands,
That’s you.
Warm butterflies,
Soft and fragile and
Able to fly like I can’t.
To catch the breeze
And drift away to battlefields of wildflowers.
Hey,
Warm butterflies,
I’ll make the space for you—
Climb on in, shake out your yellow hair,
And drunkenly laugh.
You’re warm and smell like flowers.
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