the sky was about to pour its libation to the ground when I did.
I palmed the butterfly like a tainted secret.
I didn't want the flailing arms of the wind to defile its wings
I admired its colours
and I bent at its knew for I am an aesthete
I would love my eyes to walk into a colony of colours every morn
so my days would be colourful—
spirituality unfurling in an act,
and an act replacing a morning prayer.
I would design a home for him inside my father's discarded mug
I would make it a totem
call myself a saviour,
A wish will always be a wish
when fate thunders—faith doesn't alter fate.
I botched the butterfly—
it pleaded for mercy & freedom in my walled palm—
I never knew.
Loving too is dangerous.