"Sweet paintings of butterflies..." ~ Jane Eyre

It has been two and a half months, and the butterflies will not cease to exist inside of me. Their wings flap inside of my stomach as crisply as a white linen sheet drying outside on a windy spring day, refusing to cease for even a moment for some tranquility. When the phone indicates his number, they begin to move inside of me, as if they were walking up a stem, slowly approaching a flower that is steadily in bloom. When a time is set to meet him, they leave the pillar all together and fly in the space that is my stomach, speedily pounding their wings in sync to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Before the hour of which we are set to meet, I try to distract myself from their continual soaring in my soul. Nothing really helps cease their presence, so eventually my encompassing the butterflies becomes the butterflies encompassing me. As time passes, I become more and more skeptical that they shall ever leave. Then again, I love their beauty, as well as the beauty they represent, and realize that perhaps I do not wish for them to leave...