Opposite of Infinite

- 7 -

7 - Butterflies

whenever you smiled at me

a small little winged creature was born,

unravelling its sap soaked wings from the chrysalis

and gently unfurling the colour of its back

in the sort of delayed motion somehow akin to

a corkscrew losing momentum.

almost timid as it emerged from the cage it had constructed

for itself, leaving the shredded coating

empty,

releasing the pressure in my stomach

as it now hung there,

limp.

hooked over one of the ivory white railings

contained in the skeleton of my ribcage

like an abandoned item of clothing long forgotten.

allowing the newborn insect its freedom.

to flit and to flutter as it swam

through the contents of my gut,

twisting and tickling as it churned up so many emotions

that I could not care to speak.

swooping up out of my throat

and cutting a smooth line of upturned colour

into my lips.

an impression of its wing.

I was the perfect model for your photographs,

you had decided,

and, surrounded by an assemblage of blooming and

fresh colour,

you still made sure that the lens was pointed at me.

sometimes not even with your camera.

and, when you moved closer,

I could feel the burnt ash

of your own butterflies

scalding my delicate skin.

and when you said, "can I kiss you?"

they burst into flames all over again,

ascending into the sky

like a shooting star

falling upwards.