The Butterfly
Oh, I have longed so much. Longed for her touch, fingers trailing down my body for hours. Longed for her lips close to mine, creating suspension before kissing me softly. Gently. Her blonde locks would tickle my bare shoulders, and I would tuck them behind her ear, resting my hand on her face. I would caress her. Would hold her tenderly as if she were as frail as a butterfly. Would stroke her soft cheek lovingly and forget myself in her pretty eyes.
But before dreaming further, I realized how uncomfortable she would feel, how she would detest me if she knew this dirty secret, this beautiful curse of mine; she measured inches, not cups. She liked muscles, not curves. All those signs — the gazes, the touches, the teases — thrown in a wasteland. She put her trust in the wrong person — expected me to engage in the same manner. To gaze, to touch, to tease.
I couldn’t comply. I kept my distance from the dangerous flame of attraction, and we grew apart slowly over time. We used to exchange life stories; now, we haven’t spoken in years.
I still regularly long for her presence, but she flew away, left me awed by her alluring colors.
My life will never be the same now that I have seen the charm of a butterfly.
