Chou
A glance
through razor glass,
those deep
pools of cobalt,
whispered
secrets of
my past,
one I
would never remember.
With a
touch and a
butterfly
kiss,
he took
away the last bit of my
animalism,
thieving
it in the night,
a marbled
pickpocket,
as someone
had only
six years
previous
to him.
We stood
side-by-side,
his jacket
splayed out before him
a silent
flutter, lined
like
butterfly wings.
There was
a long line of us
standing
breathless,
our wings
spanning out behind us,
mosaics of
stained glass,
paper-thin
and veined in black.
Holding
onto,
holding
steady against it
until the
time past,
and we
were free to
bleach in
the sunlight,
tasting
strawberries,
our lives
lit colorful,
filtered
through the transparent
beauty of
a
butterfly's
wing.