Butterflies
By Kiley Buck
His eyes look deeper than those I see in the mirror.
Like they know me more than I even know myself.
His voice pierces through me like the notes seeping through the stereo, but don't leave a migraine.
His touch sends sparks to my veins, like the tip of your tongue to a battery.
His presence makes my stomach jump from the tallest cliff with the confidence of being caught.
Some call this butterflies
But butterflies are beautiful, weak, and delicate.
This is a lion.
Strong, loud, and terrifying.
But I would much rather have my heart protected by a lion than a butterfly.
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The Sky
Where do we go when we die?
Momma told me, "we live in the sky"
Is that why its blue?
For all the sadness we go through?
Is that why it rains?
For all the tears shed due to the pain?
And the clouds, so fluffy and white
For the grandpas that went towards the light
What about the stars at night?
Are they souls? Still young and bright?
Tell me momma
All about the sky
And tell me
Is that where you lie?