Too often they are a lie. Lists of names barely remembered, slurred together in a hasty speech, a meaningless slip of arrogance.
I had no audience, no beautiful faces like drowning lights, yellow eyes in a smoky room. Fearful and cold, I wrote them alone, birthed in my mind by desperation and giddiness, those flighty muses.
But you were there, my euchre girls and boating boys, and I held you tightly to my chest.
I release them now my handful of teardrop butterflies,