Bombs and Butterflies

Lover,
lay over me like London fog in 1940;

With my steel bunker heart
and your air-raid touch,
we are a mix of
ground-shaking explosions
and butterfly heartbeats.

The minute our clothes dropped
to the floor like bombs,
and our propeller
mouths met,
I realized
this was a losing battle to begin with,
and thank God,
because I never wanted to win.

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