Pressing On

November 4, 2010 § Leave a comment

On the 36 heading west a woman is peeling white fluff from an orange as if it were the last piece of fruit on this earth. I watch her with butterflies diving in my belly and a banana in my bag.

The butterflies tell me I’m okay. And even if I weren’t, I think they would tell me that it’s okay to not be okay.

I think I’ll write your eyes into a haiku.

Everything here is ‘either’ and ‘or’, and I do not want to lose myself to the river. It could dry up, too, just like the well I used to drink from.

Butter me gently, butterflies.

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