there were butterflies
that once flew around
behind my rib cage
every time i would see you
or when you were mentioned,
but it wasn't long before
the butterflies didn't see
the light of day
and, one by one,
they died.

now,
behind the dusty rib cage
in my body
there's several dead butterflies
that once held so much
meaning in each one,
too much time has passed
and when you finally came around again,
they were all dead.

i had to do damage control
when you left the first time,
i cracked open my
own rib cage and
picked up each butterfly
to give them a proper burial,
one that you never gave me
when you thought you had enough
and decided to just leave.

I never thought it would be like this, but
writer's block has become a person, and
you are him. You take my words in a wisp
of the wind and they whisper away from
me. I put my pen to paper and the
ink turns invisible as I move, for how
could I write something beautiful about you
when you are capable of being every word at once -
an entire dictionary with only one meaning.