When we shared our first kiss, when your lips, chip-salty and beer-tangy, pressed to mine, I felt them dance to life in my chest. Those small, white butterflies I see on sunny mornings; like torn tissues flitting in the haze. I could feel their dusty wings tickle and tantalise, like your fingers in my hair.
When we shared our first dance, when your arms enwrapped me in all my diaphanous georgette, I felt them quicken my pulse. Those glorious, Monarch butterflies we saw on Caribbean milkweed; like blood-orange stained-glass. I could feel their feathery antennae probe and promise, like your tongue on my neck.
When we shared our first child, when your hands embraced her in all her milk-sweet flannel, I felt them swoon in my heart. Those burnished, Comma butterflies we spotted on woodland walks; like scalloped scraps of beautiful fabric. I could feel their ragged wings swish and soothe, like your lips on her cheek.
When we shared our last anniversary, when your smile, whiskey-sour and sham-thin, hung on threads, I felt only the ghosts of them. Their powdered corpses leaving a hollowness. An absence. In time, in their place, industrious spiders would weave silk-strong scaffolds; pulling together my broken parts. Warming the cavern of my chest in anticipation of a new, rousing vibrant flutter.
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