Monarch Butterflies Migrating
(or, an observation of his hair)
This is the second time.
I could write countless more empty passages on him.
(in my mind, I have)
but they say
you always have to try at least twice.
I like to see him in black.
It matches what he is somehow resembling,
contrasts sharply with his brown-gold-chocolate-coffee hair.
(why watch him? because he does not mind nor care)
and it seems, to me, that he holds
what little left of curiousity and wonder in his hand.
When he wears black.
It hides our dirtiness.
To see his pale cloudy pink skin
(or is it his sin? I do not know)
flush cold against
deathly all forgiving black.
You start thinking,
this time, always this time,
right or wrong, perhaps
but always, no.
Let us not go there. Not to the dregs of
an ash coated paradise
that even he cannot change.
Because like his reasoning, vague and incomplete as it is,
he is right. And if he is right,
our sins covered under the flap of his skin,
then shall we also
be not saved,
not in flight,
The dark pine wood fallen smoking room
where you leaned against the wall
and smiled at me.
Until I found out later
we were both butterflies
no flowers to land on
in the midst of our flight.
I do not know why I think of this.
You never haunt my dreams.
A/N: Ooh boy. Um. No history to this one. I don't even think it's complete! Jeez, I don't know why to say.