What's This?

I think, and the butterflies begin their dance.
Softly fluttering out of sleep, they move their wings in a gentle, inward breeze.
I feel their trepidation and respond; the drum (doom-DOOM, doom-DOOM) beats faster;
an unaccompanied double-stroke against my sternum.

They begin their dance, a frenzied flurry, unsolicited by my worry.
They charge the open air inside the gut and spill their bodies 'cross the sands against my tongue,
and what you hear is garbage, not the "I love you" that will never come.
I'm scared to make you feel worse.

Your "knight in shining armor" awaits you, my lady,
back at his palace, where the Warcraft waits,
and he will sit, alone, and let you stir
when all you want is to have him by your side.
I cannot say I am a better man; I value myself against other men
and measure praise and folly by their merits.
But these wasted words hurt more than I can bear,
though I cannot bring myself to cease their flow.

Perhaps tomorrow, I will find a better view.
No longer will I have to look at you.
I won't have to be the touchy-feely guy,
though I play him off like he's not really there,
and then I can let you go back to your Marcus,
a man I've never met, but a man I'm sure to dislike,
regardless of whether he's naughty or nice
I'll just think you deserve better.

--pour Maria