He cranks up the heat,
To Eighty Five,
And sits on the sofa,
Imagining her,
Sitting next to him,
Still wrapped up in a blanket,
His butterfly.
Talking to him,
Her voice so sweet,
Like a lullaby,
But there's no sleep.
All he wants,
Is to be up all night,
Listening to her,
His butterfly.
He turns on the stove,
And sees it glow,
Like the look in her eyes,
When she stood there,
Looking at him,
Cooking for him,
Eggs and rice.
Her soft, slender hands,
Moving about,
Stirring things,
On the stove,
And in his heart,
His butterfly.
He sits on the edge,
Of the bed,
And remembers her,
Moving about,
Picking stuff,
To pack in her bags,
Her soft, silky hair,
Bouncing about,
Trapped in a clip.
Like him,
Struggling to break free,
And become the cocoon,
And wrap her in his arms,
Before she flies away,
His butterfly.
How he wants her back,
And the moments long gone,
To tell her that,
Picks up the phone,
But in a flash,
He puts it down.
Because she may be happier,
Without him in her life,
So he turns down the heating,
Back to Seventy Five,
And walks out the door,
Saying goodbye,
Leaving behind,
His butterfly.