A little past five.
The dying breath of a sun.
Only a table to break us apart.
I lean backwards so their arm can fit.
And I dance. I always end up dancing.
It was me all those years standing and waiting for butterflies to feed of my bare body.
It was me. Dragging chairs and changing shadows.
Day 59. I believe they call it February.
You came by with a thornless rose.
Euphoric butterflies refusing to leave.
Have I told you I’m only comfortable with dull colours?
Stay. Stay and tell me what happens when love goes right.”