You and I started off as children
and cacooned
until we became butterflies,
stretching our wings
to their fullest extent.
I think butterflies are beautiful,
each one with unique colorings
can choose to hide or be seen.
Our patterns work in sync,
and we chase each other
through fields and flowers
until I forget whose colors are whose
and which wings are mine, or yours.
They work better together anyways.

I am an exothermic reaction
waiting for a catalyst,
every additional substance increases
the number of microstates.
I’ve seen iron bind to hemes
and tried to stop it drip into cracks.
It’s even hard to let go of tears.
I fuss over cells when what matters are organs.
Sometimes a heartbeat is just a beat,
increased by hormones in your head
and I like to close my eyes and listen
to science confirming emotions
and try to quantify art.

Let’s turn the world upside down
and fall into the sky.
Take my hand and we’ll reach
farther than the footprints on the moon.
Brush off the dust
and I’ll watch as the stars twinkle
in your eyes, impossible
is the space between our interlocked fingers.

Let’s sail across the ocean,
feeding fish and taming sharks.
We’ll swim to the depths
and tickle coral, watching
polyps expend.
We can lay out on sand
and let the sun turn water
into gas.

Let’s climb atoms
and build molecules,
untwist DNA just to watch
as it springs back, increase
ATP just to expend it.

Did you know that one electron
can make oxygen a free radical?
It builds up in your system
just to break you down.

One word can be the difference
between the truth and lie.
One choice can be the difference
between this world
and the next.
I’d hand you my heart if you asked.

What to do
when the birds start singing
at frequencies beyond my hearing
and gravity
is no longer enough
to keep me grounded?
When there’s not enough
chlorophyll to catch all the sun
or ocean to catch the rain?
When there’s too many flags
waving in the wind
and more than enough oxygen
to fuel a fire?

You preach philosophies,
wishing to melt mountains with your mind.
You find its presence unfair to the desert,
always blocking out rain.
So you call yourself ambassador,
telling the mountain of the desert’s plight.
The mountain agrees,
lowering itself so that the clouds may be free
to travel elsewhere.
It gives equal chance to the desert.
But what to call a mountain
who no longer blocks the sun?
Who’s peaks no longer stand, among
thinning air?
What to call a desert, who’s
no longer dry?
The clouds dislike the evenness of travel,
the openness with which they glide.