This is for Diane.
The undefinable Diane and all of her nuances and absurdity. For her awareness I could not stand, and for her shallow smiles that haunt my memories.
She could be any color she liked. But she defaulted to blue.
On rainy Sunday mornings she couldn't wake up, except when an orange butterfly found shelter on her window sill. The gray billows cascaded down around her glossy wings like bullets, but she didn't flinch.
All she had that morning was her shallow smile. Last night didn't love like it should have, but nothing haunts like the present--I understand that now.
I want to hold her against the wind and tell her it would have been alright. Or at least escape with her into the bleak black night.
Turned out the butterfly was dead. Her delicate finality must have been brief, thus unheeded by the wind and rain. She was frozen already like figments of an overactive imagination or a sepia stained memory.
-Dan
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