I take the butterflies that fall from your lips
and I pin them to the wall and I put them in jars.
What a handsome collection of secrets they make.
You are something made of smoke and I
cannot catch you with only these hands.
But I am not sure that I would want to if I could.
You have been in my lungs before and you sting.
Something tells me I should be more afraid of you.
You are downright dangerous but I like the odds.
You are destructive but I am self-destructive
so I suppose we are a match made in purgatory.
In which case, saddle up.
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