more like butterflies....
but who wants to read about gentle spring time love,
when it is sproinging out the window....

want to stir the juice
and partake in senseless pondering
of the depth of the stirring in my loins,
be that as it may, i indulge, nay,
wander in the light and glow of the
gentle bath called *crush*,
such a harsh word for the slightly out of
breath feeling that is wrought from
the tendrils of creeping vine of
like, lust and burgeoning that start to live in me,
becoming parts of me,
growing that is not at all like dying.