with Butterfly Wings

Sorry, wrong person, the words read across the screen after a link pops up above it. I thought you said you deleted numbers after things ended and yet here we are, I think, but reply only with smiles and a wave of the hand. I've started turning off my phone in the mornings, no one is trying to reach me then who cannot wait. It draws the walls closer, grates at my lungs, but experts say it's good for your health. This desk drowns in books of poetry, it's a disease, why is no one stopping the deluge, I am clearly powerless on my own; it's just these words breathe for me when I cannot do it myself, it's just when you've decided to live you still need a game plan, there's a bookstore in Woodstock I cannot pass now without blushing, the words won't tell. 

There's a candle lit in my window that smells of man, the packaging said nothing of that, said nothing to the visions it would conjure of naked bodies or early mornings or my lips tingling involuntarily, how humans can build such complex ideas of themselves and still be reduced into only bodies with one breath. 

The point I'm trying to make is that I found an answer today, buried beneath so many sheets of paper, buried within so many layers of protective clothing around my heart, it lay gasping like the humbling piece of truth it was, and like most truths it wasn't very pretty, and like most truths when I put it on I didn't entirely enjoy my reflection in the mirror, but when I put it on, my steps along the river were lighter, when I tasted it on my tongue I smiled in a way I haven't done since the cherry blossoms exploded in Brooklyn, and I think if you took all these words off my desk it wouldn't matter because 

my 

supplies

are

infinite.