We’ve wiggled through heartbreaks and emerged as butterflies without flight. I remember the gullibility of being a larvae and, oh, how it was bliss, counting days as if the beauty promised at the end of the journey is assured, is already had. But promises can be broken even though it shouldn’t, even though it’s perfect.

You blinked me off your eyelashes and I blinked you off mine, yet I didn’t pay attention whether or not you fell on my toes. I probably didn’t on yours. Just stuck on the heel like an inextinguishable cigarette butt. That burnt the forest down, replacing the foliage with lush inferno. Our tree stood and burnt last, yet it burnt.

Butterflies exist; it’s just a shame how something must be broken first in order for them to emerge.

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