a flower stretching for a butterfly’s kiss
—for Ese
There’s a thing that happens when you love someone
who loves you back but can’t embrace it. I’ve been
thinking about a scene in an old film, where a boy
chases a train, and a girl cries but stays
on it anyway. It’s not a metaphor, unless everything is.
I told the girl I love there was no country I wanted
more than her body folded beside mine in the quiet
after rain. But she said healing is a slow god,
& love is the blood it asks for. Said love would break
the skin she’s just beginning to grow again. Said I was
too much of a mirror, & she’s tired of seeing all the parts
of herself that haven’t yet stopped bleeding. But what
do you do when your healing needs someone
who’s running from the same thing? Who am I
to tell her the world doesn’t gift wholeness to those
who wait? That some of us are rivers never meant
to be complete. There’s a version of this story
where we’re older, less afraid, our ghosts quieter.
We meet at some show in some dim place
& I pretend not to notice the way her smile
still ruins me. But this isn’t that story. This is the one
where I’m a flower stretching & she’s the butterfly
that refuses to land on me. This is the one where
almost becomes the prayer I say every night
until my mouth forgets how to close.