You're a memory I can't lose.
The memories I have are far too precious.
I'll hold onto them for as long as I live.
Because I smile every time the memories go through my mind.
You're the memory I can't lose.

The first time I tripped,
It was over the shoe laces
of a boy with hazel eyes
and Venus fly trap lashes.

When he laughed,
I saw a thousand butterflies
leave his mouth
like a confetti explosion.

Captivated by this winged downpour,
I sought to release every single butterfly
from the cages of his ribs;
Until they filled the spaces of grey planes,
which followed every cynic’s footsteps,
and pollinated every flower
of a dying breed.

My world became a kaleidoscope
of time and colour
where I could no longer distinguish
sunrise from sunset.

Careless of the clock’s limit,
I took its hand and spun circles
within the butterfly boy’s garden
foolishly forgetting
that neither butterfly nor boy
were creatures for all seasons.

So when the first red drop of tomorrow
fell from a tree,
The swarm of colours flew south
taking with it, my kaleidoscope lenses
and the boy;
Still, with his shoe laces undone
and his insides
a nest of larvae.

Ask him about the first time we met.
He will tell you,
eyes bright,
that I made him laugh
so hard
that his ribcage cracked open,
releasing a generation of butterflies
he kept hidden for so long
I may never know
who hatched them there.

Ask him about the songs I sing.
He will tell you,
in a familiar tune,
that I make pythons dance.
My vocal chords are marionettes
that turn ballerinas into puppets
whose feet never touch the ground.

Ask him about my bedroom.
He will tell you,
counting off of his fingers,
that the shelves are stacked and rickety
the vanities empty
and the lamp, a glowing green,
casts shadows of butterflies.
He will tell you that there are two broken clocks
under glow in the dark stars
and a table of sketches
eraser dust
and matchsticks.

Ask him about the sketches.
Ask him about the shelves.

Ask him about my poetry.
A muted mouth with a severed tongue will tell you
that there are hundreds,
written on the insides of my palms
But they've been caged fists
since my heart  first opened
and there is not a single joke
that could make me laugh
hard enough
to set free the crushed chrysalids
that I've been holding
since I discovered butterflies.

If I were to make a poem
About how you
Make me feel
It would contain
Waves of sadness
And mountains of doubts
heavy rains of anxiety
And tornadoes of thoughts
Forests of innocence
That the fires of passion
Would burn out
Lightning bolts of panic
And whirlwind of emotions
That’s all your about