Did you drop into existence, light as a feather, or did you make the world implode with your erupting presence? 300 million years ago, animal but human, human and needy, riding on backs of giants to travel to farwaway places, and then soaring...
Extracting anger and desperation, tying yourself tight to an image of hope, to an image of transformation, so we humans can only desire to be worthy of your donation...
Nothing flusters you, and even though your wings are both blue, there is nothing sad about you.
You tuck away the empty chasms of a soul made to feel too old, made to feel that it should not aspire to be the sun, but merely its shadow... and you paint their switched off, tired eyes with ineffable hues of strength.
Dragonfly, you show me that through your years, you've cried and you fought your battles and some old parts of you died... and you showed me that rebirth and imperfection aren't missing but whole, that mess isn't haunted or unwanted but needed for exploration...
If every particle of ours, every chemical that went into a single thought could be stored away in its designed, picturesque room, how could we claim to be mysteries?
Dragonfly, now it's my turn to give away my pieces of decay, let them burn. You are expectedly lingering at my window, you've always been, and I'll no longer keep you waiting.