Arc, I’ve the Butterfly Wings on the Wall

I want a bottle of gin
And two soft hands
While I sit in the room full of butterfly wings
I’ve been up and counting
All night
With only my half open eyes, a pen,
And a crumpled yellow paper notebook
That looks like it belongs to a French sailor.
My words could never
Never ever
Never
Be like these once fluttering bright colors
With spots and stripes and poison
Some bright like Easter
And others incandescent
Like gasoline and gold fingers.
This room could use a record player
So many drawers and so much
Lifeless flight
A room so musty but not
A drop of nectar
Not a sight of her.