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.