Pocket of Butterflies

My fingers dazed,
My head aches,
My heart it throbs at a swift pace.

Everything frigid,
Everything dark,
Everything pressuring the heart.

The butterflies, they move,
They never stand still,
As you say the words,
They always will.

My lips part,
My eyes leak,
My hand longs for your touch and heat.

Everything closed-in,
Everything hollow,
Everything breathless, it's hard to swallow.

The butterflies, they move,
Frantically flapping their wings,
As you say 'i love you',
They don't know what joy it brings.

My ears ring,
My legs shake,
My heart slowly starting to break.

Everything clamorous,
Everything spins,
Everything trapped within different things.

The butterflies, they move,
Rapidly about,
As you say more,
Now they want out.

My teeth grind,
My skin chills,
My chest contains a pain that kills.

Everything blurry,
Everything dead,
Everything revolving in my head.

The butterflies they move,
Wanting to be free,
As you spill your heart out,
They do not hear your plea.

My shoulders cramp,
My wrists burn,
My love for you will never turn.

Everything nonsense,
Everything done,
Everything is better cause you are the one.

The butterflies they move,
Towards the surface and revealed,
As he looks in awe,
Yet the love is still concealed.

For every little butterfly,
Hastily flapping its wings,
Carries a pocket of warmth,
Which it then to him brings.

They empty their pockets,
As they always do,
This is me saying 'i love you'.