remember the butterflies?

is it connecting with you that makes us so real
the touch of your fingertips
the way you make time stand still

on these foreign benches
the butterflies of wild
stomach churning
minds are speaking
the flick and flap
the butterflies are not for stopping

the awkward silence
a hint of your smile
the long glances
of doubt and sheer madness

an appetite for lust
controlled only by the light
yet as sun sets and dusk breaks
the butterflies go wild

a walk in the dark
the forbidden has arrived

the power of your being
instensifies with each winged flight

yet as refuge of darkness
opens to streams of blinding light
the lagoon of butterflies
crash and would soon collide

what makes us so real
brief moment so alive
or did no soul intertwining exist at all?

I'd like to think there were butterflies...

Remember?