and the butterfly thinks
‘boy what a twat’
in haze of dawn
(morning dreams of spring
and teases sleeping world
with a little smile of sunshine
a postman paradise
the world sleeps)
but not we.
little solar systems
floating along
threadbare pavements
hovering over
silent roads
talking about
everything
our mouths motoring
speaking in tongues
and stuck in smiles
(the wind changed at a beautiful moment)
watch the shapes my mouth makes
as i tell you
everything
and feel my beating heart race
because we are finally
everything.
you tell me, i’ll listen
these are the colours that memories are painted in.)
unnoticed the butterfly
out of season
stretches and yawns,
thinking about breakfast.
we’ve woke him up and wasted him.
‘boy what a twat.’