white-butterfly moments

I’ve yet to know a love which can survive itself, or bear the weight of those who’d promised to carry it forth– tho I’d believed with the faith of a child, martyred on its crudely-hewn redwood cross, love becoming my only religion. Souls come and go from our lives, amblers, strangers, and passersby, some staying for a beautiful while. And I’d know each of them if blind, if deaf, if deprived the sense of touch. I’d know the subtleties of each essence, feeling each existence gently light upon the timid skin of my own, tho as fluttered away into ethereal blue, departed, left begging the question of whether love comes only in white-butterfly moments or if it stays, an invariable constant– and another is awaiting an answer; questions are answers, I’d told her– in a conversation where each shared too much, yet not neither enough, and neither daring ask more questions.

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