Butterflies
they say that butterflies can fly at twelve miles per hour, but i can feel them rattling around inside me,
like a dog off leash, or a hurricane,
unpredictable and loose.
they say butterflies can see green, red, and yellow,
but they forget that butterflies can see the brown and speckled gold of her eyes,
that they can see the light in her smile when she flashes me that crooked grin.
records say butterflies have been around for nearly four thousand years,
that the population is more than they can count, and that’s probably my fault.
records show one hundred new butterflies are born when she laughs,
when she tosses her head back and closes her eyes as the laughter shakes her.
no more analogies;
i can feel my stomach twist in knots when i hear her voice,
like the sweetest honey,
dripping down my fingers and ever so sweet.
no more metaphors;
but i am more butterflies than i am human at this point,
i am more honey filled than i am anything else.
one of these days, i’ll sprout my own wings.
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