The Butterflies

I thought they died, the butterflies.
Never to be seen again.
But here I am, struggling to catch my breath as they flood my nerves once again.
I thought he broke me.
To a point where I couldn't be fixed.
And yet you've managed to stir up the very thing he put to rest.

Is it just the nervous way you smile to yourself?
Or perhaps it's the way you can't sit still and I know the feeling.
I can't put my finger on it but nevertheless sleep evades me tonight, driven out of mind by these darned butterflies.
And while I'd love to say I hate the sensation, it wouldn't be the most true thing to pass from my lips.
I sort of love that you do this to me.
That this time it's you and not him.