I kept all the butterflies in my stomach in a jar hidden somewhere in my closet. I would need them at nights when I'm tangled up in your sheets and I need to feel something.

There used to be days that just walk through me, and I can’t hold them well enough like your secrets.

You are the words I can't seem to write and stash away in those paper napkins when I take afternoons off coffee houses, the butterflies I've caged in my stomach, so I won't have to feel them after all those somersaults.

I hold too many secrets to spill them all to you after a handful of conversations.