Butterflies

You died. And butterflies without bodies escaped my rib cage. They were our rarest currency, only found lying on the ground or between car grills. I’d rip the wings from a million butterflies to buy one more day with you, even if the end were still the same. Your body, slumped over still sitting with the needle in your arm, you never were one to lie down. You were a hot summer day, loud cicadas, and rapid running creeks. You were disinhibited, reckless, and God it was beautiful. I want to live as courageously as you. I want to burn bright until I burn out. But I do not want to go without you. My heart still refuses to believe you’re gone. You’re in our never-land, a small woods bigger than all our traumas. I’m sorry for the days when I no longer ran hand-in-hand with you. I’m sorry for growing up too soon. If butterflies could buy one more day with you, I’d beg God to make us eight again. On a crisp spring morning, bare feet in a frozen creek, looking for crawdads and magic. Butterflies will not bring you back- but every summer, when I raise them, I will pray they carry my love to you, on those coveted wings.

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