Musings of a Butterfly

You see her, walking down the street. Mumbling to herself, pushing the shopping cart Wild, dirty hair; yellow fingernails, missing teeth You don't want to look at her because you are afraid Of the truth and the sadness behind her eyes You don't want to take the time to ask Because you are afraid that her truth might be yours Years and years from now. Broken promises and regrets. False truths you believed in. Caved in; torn to pieces; Pieces of you, pieces of her. You don't know which is which.

Curtains closed,  city street sounds below.  Inside, dark blue, your silhouette breathing slowly, next to me against crisp white sheets. Our bodies writhed and twisted a few minutes ago,  the need for each other almost unbearable. Thirsty; hungry, we fed upon each other, as if tomorrow may never come. Tomorrow you will go again and disappear. My want and need for you will still be incessant. But now I am good at pretending it isn't. 

Windows to the soul are eyes. You reach inside and shake up the soul within. Looking through your hair. Intensely gazing. With you; enveloped in darkness, twinkling city; smiling lights Breathe in your smell; kiss you in the moonlight. Electricity when you touch, tiny impulses drum every inch of skin. Your skin on mine. My being touching yours. Falling down the rabbit hole. Stumbling speak. Crashing waves; breezy and blue; your face; a painted memory. Face up to the sun, spin around and around around like that dream that never faded. No sense of time. Hours flash by in minutes, causing dizziness. Your head in my lap. My fingers in your hair. Floating, dreamlike, with soft edges and vivid colours. Flashes of passion; your heat courses through my veins like an addiction, Feel fluttery, heart beats fast, insides warm. I ask how? You say it's your secret.

Love. Blooms as a rose, or a blossom in the springtime. Fresh dew on blades of grass, like diamonds in the early morning mist. She walks, barefoot to a grassy clearing in the woods; dew drops sprinkle her blood red painted toes, daisies kiss her ankles. She stands still and listens to the chirping and whistling of early birds, filling the otherwise heavy silence through the trees. She breathes in the sweet smell of dawn; closes her eyes and dreams of ballerina steps and love hearts, wishes and tears, joy and bittersweet pain. And then she remembers. Remembers his kiss, remembers his touch, remembers their passion, remembers the way she can still smell him when she flips her hair, and her heart opens up. If he were here now, perhaps he could smell the sunlight on her skin. And there are tulips and daffodils and buttercups. And melancholy all but disappears and hides away. For a while.