Messengers

The day I told you I loved you, I was wearing a dress made from butterfly wings. Today I wore it again, and saw someone identical to you.

I think of the sun as liquid light, and those butterflies as messengers. Their destinies are wrapped between gusts of wind, their wings lead them there. They pass away once they have fulfilled their lives, and fall from the sky like pollen. I pick them up like I’m picking pennies off the streets, and weave a dress of destiny with tree branches and hope.