In flowers of paper, or flowers in paper I don't remember, they were laid which hands I couldn't say.

It might have came for His hands or their hands I don't know.

My lost staring in my blue marine coat.

Mixing with the poor, also being spoiled as an unwilling rich girl.

A rainbow representation of my own-created butterflies being in my stomach.

Because they are being themselves, they're not ashamed to be designed just to flap there and then dissapear until our encounter again.

I have no idea if they keep feeling it, in my body, they haven't dissapeared.

It's always there, but unlikely all the time; only when something yearned is present.

It only happens when something I don't expect pop us there, when is a wish being formed in flesh. I certainly hate flesh, but if such magnificient knowledge is locked in that closet of yours, let me be locked there in silence.

What else? I'll wait.