Butterfly Words

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I watch her walk down the hall and I think she's beautiful.
I see her sit on a bench with a book and set pen to paper and without really noticing I find myself drawn toward her.

Her soft brown hair falls over her rosy cheeks and the tip of each strand seems to caress her, as if each and every individual hair knew just how lucky it was to be so near her, as if they each could see the sign on her heart of gold that read “Please, handle with care”.

On shaky legs I manage a mumbled “Hi,” and a slightly awkward silence settles as butterflies make my stomach come alive.

Oh I wish so badly for those butterflies to rise up out of my stomach; I will them to surge up through my esophagus, up past my racing heart that beats only for her, between my chattering teeth and out through my lips as words.

Butterfly words on the wind of my baited breath, I watch them spill out of my mouth, floundering at first, until they gain from her a giggle.

They flit out to flutter circles around her fabulous figure in the same way that figments of thoughts of her fly through my head, and as countless pairs of wings fly past her flirting eyes she start to see a picture.

Monarch wings seem to merge together in a flapping flurry as my butterfly words tell a story.
The velvety black veins in between every splash of color mold together to make two human figures,
and the words tell the story of a little boy and a little girl who grew up together, and that little boy and that little girl are us – who figured?

I watch understanding seep into her eyes with every butterfly word, and they each contain all the colors of a sunrise, but where the sun should be is instead her smiling face which to me shines brighter than any star.

The way the colors dance on the sparkle in her eyes takes my breath away, and as the last of the butterflies make their way past her line of sight I catch a fleeting smile, ruby lips parted in a picture that time can never hope to take from me; it's the only make up she'll ever need and that look will never go out of style.

And just like that I watch the butterflies begin to flee, their prize – her smile – attained; their task complete.

And as I watch each pair of wings fade away to silence I hear myself softly say: “Will you go to prom with me?”





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