Last week I ate a roost of butterflies against my will.
My mouth was closed, but they found a way in through my neural pathways when I saw you.
They took a deep dive into my bloodstream that flowed directly into my heart, jumped onto an airstream coming from my lungs and then settled into a chaotic circular rhythm in my central nervous system.
I can’t control them.
It doesn’t seem to matter if you are standing right in front of me or I close my eyes and see your face. That kaleidoscope of butterflies just keeps fluttering with hapless intent.
I don’t think they plan to leave anytime soon.
I don’t think they have a plan.
I do think they are multiplying.
Today I opened my mouth to breathe and one hundred butterflies tumbled out. It looked like they had a plan. But they just filled the room in topsy-turvy loops and half loops with their fluttering flutters.
Now a fleet of butterflies flutter around me wherever I go. I leave them fluttering all over town.
At the post office.
At the grocery store.
At the swimming pool.
I saw one trapped in my car as I rushed to meet you on the street, but it managed to escape through the rear exhaust pipe and dove into my mouth.
I’ve decided to stop fighting them. I’m happy to let them all come fluttering back and take up their post in my central nervous system to remind me who is in charge.