Swallowing Butterflies

I saw a butterfly wing today. I picked it up and feathery dust stuck to my finger tips. It seems that my prints strip the wing of glory. It's funny, but the shimmering colors don't transfer to my fingers. The cold gray blotch on the membrane matched the sharded dust on my hands.

I wonder what happened to the butterfly. We don't choose to leave our limbs behind. Was it old age, or lizards and toads and birds oh my. A wing shaped bit of my heart ached too. Such a velvet black and limpid blue will never fly again. My eyes swallow the memory for later.

So many colors on so many things. You'd think my brain would get indigestion from all the things it's eaten. My faltering tongue tries to transfer it, but all they see is gray. Wishes won't spin the words to lapis lazuli or gold. The color stays in my mind; slightly cast with depression.

One day my mouth will hold the colors of butterflies. I'll share it in a kiss if you want to speak in rainbows. A quick snap will fill your mouth with ashes, so hold it on the tip of your tongue.