BOTTLE-GREEN BUTTERFLIES

They're still there

The ones for whom you wake up every morning
The ones for whom you look in the mirror every day
The ones who write closeted poetry and read Confucius
The ones with whom you wouldn't mind getting lost in the winter wilderness
The ones who get dimples when they smile bashfully at you
The ones whose throbbing, dewy lips seem to always crave yours
The ones that cry every time they see Pather Panchali
The ones who’re as lifelike as a Vermeer painting, drawn with a fine camel hair brush
The ones who look like children when their hair is unruly
The ones who gift you unexpected compliments
The ones who’re playfully combative while sharing passions
The ones whom you catch looking up from their Capotes to look at you
The ones you miss most on every vacation
The ones you want to touch so bad on the most difficult of occasions
The ones who never cease to wonder you
The ones who make you smile in your sleep
The ones who make you look out of the window in the rain with a sad, longing face
The ones who make every new pain somehow worthwhile
The ones who open your soul up like bandages
The ones who're somehow always beyond your reach

They're still there