February sky.

Boy, you bring the butterflies back from the grave in the pit of my stomach. Wings the color of a pristine February sky. They fly up, up, up, to my throat, where they block my respiratory passageways and make each word my lips form a staggered swear. I'm digging for words in this one-horse town, but I can't seem to write a line. I'm in the fire, burning up with every wrong wording that escapes the confines of my lips. Don John would be proud. When you're there with that grin on your face, your skin crinkled at the corners of your eyes the way it always is when you smile, the fire is doused. And we go out with it.