Tuesday, 28 September 2010


He wants her to be a butterfly, look pretty, land on his leaf when he wants butterfly. He wants short-lived, colourful, flighty, a transformation into the beautiful for a moment, and then gone.

Of course, he doesn't know she's already been cabbage white, common blue, speckled wood, been wanted before in all those grass verges waste ground woodland clearings, been captured and released, suffered a hundred tiny deaths in killing jars.

He doesn't know that being a butterfly can be painful, wants only what he wants, can't see that waiting to see what she wants might be a beautiful transformation for the both of them, only sees brevity, the flicker of wings when he wants wings, and not the woman she could be.

Of course, she could never tell him this, feels delicate because this is what butterflies feel.