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Butterflies
My heart bleeds paprika snow,
pregnant is she with thorns and amor.
The passion is partial the ache mutual.
Like a foolish hare in the jaws of a hound.
The barrel of your hand is on my chest.
The stretch of your smell has a hold on my breast.
The perfume of your voice shakes my innards.
The print of your skin leaves cocoons in my gut.
One day they burst, soaring and kicking,
shrieking and singing: your name.
