not as beautiful as the butterflies.

the pavements glittered in the night,
where you'd danced, and where the snow
had fallen since and turned to ice.

(i watched the children play as i stared out,
sitting on my front porch,
feet on a well-worn paving slab,
wond'ring why i'm shaking,
why this midnight mem'ry makes me cry)

was it last week, that the boy i love
said that he had wings?
and i watched him smile under a streetlight,
ignorant and wonderful as his shadow grew feathers,
panes of cracked glass, lip prints on a
wine glass, his shoulderblades escaping out his skin
out into a hole between the clouds above our heads,

and his fingers lifted out of mine,

we're not all meant to step out with the movie stars
we're not all meant to touch the gods,
we're not all meant to kiss the lips of saints
or dance with the angels at heaven's gates,
because we're only moths inside the creases
we're only roaches on the piss-stained walls
we're only maggots in our own corpses,
we're only lice inside the woodgrain,
and in the roots bursting out the earth,
some of us were just born parasites,
not as beautiful as the butterflies,

not as beautiful as you, no,
we can't slice open our silk cocoons
and turn them into swan wings,
a silhouette against the sunrise,
go out into the sky and find love,
couldn't find love like you could

not like we did,
when stars formed on the pavement beneath us, and you,
holding me, like i could fly too.