I wake in dreams, walking down winded stairs, stone walls, and high ceilings. It was the best it ever got, compared to the ruins and white pale hallways I saw before.
This dream was not that cold or naked bright. It was soothing to the sleepless eye. No darkness or horror laid there. Just the sea and beach outstretched for miles and miles. A boat and laughter. Laughter of children. Of us, back then.
I began to walk down. Down the railways, touching the stone walls. I looked up at the sky. Stars. It was a delightful dream.
I was all alone, barefoot, the sand under my toes, waves gently lapping at the hem of my white dress. The waves came and went over and over again.
Where was he? The butterfly. O, butterfly! My little butterfly. My dark secret love.
YOU ARE READING
Chasing Butterflies
Short StoryDreams.... art, dance and fleeting memories and music. That I can no longer make sense of. Maybe they never did. Maybe they don't have to. Yet, I've tried. Tried to peice them all together...to sew these.. endlessly t o...
