Butterflies. 

I am afraid of butterflies. 
The kind that land on flowers so bright that they would burn your tongue if ever tasted. The kind that last only for a month before they perish – from gardens and from human sight. The kind that are graceful and take the days as dances with the wind. The kind that lay eggs only to abandon them for a flower of another land. 
I am afraid of butterflies. 
The kind that I never see but can only feel. The kind that made temporary homes under my ribcage and around my organs. The kind that flutter around erratically when another heartbeat comes near. The kind that daily life forgets when someone leaves but the body remembers forever. 
I am afraid of butterflies, but I long for their visits. And that is the tingling irony I live with as long as I crave for love. 

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