'Not any time,

When it's tickling

In my tummy

It's a butterfly',

I tried to convince myself

When putting

A book about love

Back onto its shelf.

'It could also be

An unknown illness

Or something of that sort';

Does it matter?

As long as it doesn't hurt...

It might get better,

If left alone.

Way more scarry

I consider

The casual drumming

Of my heart

Against my bones.