1d
Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.
Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.
Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.
We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.
Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.
Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.
We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.
never the butterfly.
Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.
Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.
We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.
Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.
Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.
We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.
