are lush butterflies
with crushed wings
in azure, yellow, and violet
marmalade

trapped in a glass
like a ball in a penny arcade
rolling in a memory
stolen from the air

they breathe
melting as ice-cream
in a hot July
they'll be a puddle

of pistachio as they die
sticky to the touch
running as a river
down every finger

you trace
but you sealed the top
and twisted tight
and stored them in
the back of the cupboard
out of sight