these days I still find myself
feeding the butterflies
in my stomach
i hold them dearly in the lining
and by now they’re so used to the acid
if this was the 60s they’d be tripping
fondling their wings to Grace Slick
if this was the 60s i would have absorbed
into me
by now
my butterflies
they flutter and swarm and sometimes they regress
to quiet cocoons
hanging like small bats
up my oesophagus
and sometimes they go the wrong way
and they end up in my trachea
and i choke and i remember that
these days i am surrounded by you
like a blanket of kisses and
like a soft touch and a stinging touch
and i wish i felt like this again
i wish i could replace your face on every other thought
i drink four cups of tea a day
and every teabag makes me wonder
if you’re drinking tea
if you’re missing me
if you’re drinking tea
if you ever think of me
i wonder if you could hold me still
tight against you
high as shit, half under the duvet and
half under Nina Simone
i wish i put a spell on you
but if there is gypsy blood in my veins
i have not yet unlocked the skill
and all i am left to do
is travel and even in my travels
i wallow
in endless longing and self-pity
perhaps you never loved me
but i am sure i loved you enough for the both of us
and perhaps you never wrote a poem about me
but i wrote about you for the both of us
and perhaps you don’t think about me
you know where this is going
in times like these i wish i could
have been more
than simply not enough