Its a type of magic really,

The way your gaze could hold me like a straight jacket.

Those clever marbles,

The piercing, calm blue of a winter morning sky.

What have they seen?

Id sit and listen to you tell me till you decided you were done,

Id lap up every bit of your story you offered me,

And never have my fill.

The pile of black paper butterflies in the center of the table grew ever larger,

Seeming some sort of monument to the night.

By the end it was a wave, big enough to send me rolling,

But I'll find my footing and I'll keep moving forward.