Butterflies

Some have looked at me the way you are looking at me right now. They either give me the jitters, or I barely notice them.

That gaze, it never fails to make me feel uncomfortable.

But yours, only you and your eyes, have the magic to make the butterflies flap their wings once again, and send them flying almost to heaven.

Can you see them in my eyes, my dear? Or is it hers that you see now?

And all I could do is just blurt out silly things that come up in my mind like a little girl.

I do not want you to see the butterflies, simply because I am unsure of what is going on right now. It had been too long; these butterflies have been standing still for too long a time, and they have forgotten what is up and what is down; what is left and what is right.

I do not know whether what I feel now is what I am supposed to feel. Moreover, I do not know about you.

You are not entirely an enigma, but I do not understand you deep enough to be able to pinpoint exactly your mind and heart’s whereabouts.

Are you thinking of her when you look at me that way? Do you always want to call out her name when you see me? Does my hair remind you of her?

Whose face forms inside your mind now, darling?

I have no rights whatsoever to question you. I can only sit down behind my desk, my diary open to today’s date, and twirl an imaginary rose of infinite petals.

It’s me, it’s not me; it’s me, it’s not me…

These butterflies, they are dangerous.

I am sorry. Before I can be sure that every of these are not just a beautiful mirage, I have to protect myself from the cliff, from you, from myself.

You have wonderful lips, my dear, but I can’t place my trust on them.

3/1/09 Sat
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