The Butterfly   

Is that a memory? A reflection of condensation, and
I think I spy a tear running down — maybe.
It’s just a memory now. It’s a year, back in time,
When we were practically frolicking in the immunized
Mess that was our high school, and we were learning
The beginnings of metaphysics and what would never
Turn into colloquial hieroglyphics. We were
Wearing fake mustaches for fun and gamboling in privileges
That counted for nothing unless you had the genetics.

It was the first time, in what is now a long string
Of fractured sentiments and disheartened frowns,
That I’d really broken someone down. I still remember
The look on your face when I said it: Something, I’m sure,
About it not being you. And it’s still me.

Your mustache isn’t fake anymore, but I haven’t changed. I’m still
Writing about light reflection and speaking in egotistical refrains
That everyone misconstrues as inspiration — and I even wore that dress,
The other day. Fabricated displays of socialization are understood as
Unfettered attractions even though I know, and they don’t, that it’s never going to happen.

But here, on this long hardened road of rambling observation, I’ve slipped
Off the track; and we still haven’t gotten to the moral of
This story about my unfortunate knack for losing happy.
The last one counted for a few months before I realized there was a stagnant
Lack of blasphemy. So I got out like I often get out: Something, I’m sure,
About it not being him. It’s always me.

And I guess what I’m saying is, after everything, I hope you’re
Doing okay. I still remember the look on your face: a reflection
Of all the blind-sided confusions and unspoken questions — the look
On all their faces as I let them each down. It’s just
A memory now, but sometimes, I wish it hadn’t happened.