Back to editing! I'm going to take a look at another 30 day thing. But first: I am so, so, SO glad that today is my work Friday. Really. I can't even describe it. The weeks slide by more easily. The general tone is still sticky. Tomorrow I have a lunch meeting with my ex, a trip to the library, and serious bonding time with all my game platforms. Please, please, please let this weekend heal and refresh.

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Original Text:

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.

I consider this to be kind a poetry bud. There's no plot, no theme. Just images dripping down over each other. It's hard to decide what to do with it.

A cobalt flash and a tip of black
I thought I found a butterfly.
it may have been one once
but just a wing remained
still shivering with wind
and iridescence. I picked
it up and my spirits fell
as it lifted. the jeweled
scrap of sky splotched
dirty grey with my finger
tips. I looked for gems
in the swirled prints and
found only shards of dust.

The pang of further destruction
had me wondering how
it had been left behind.
there's not much you
can trump as a flower flying.
a wing shaped bit of my heart
ached, and my eyes swallowed
it for memory. I wish
I could touch it to my mouth
and take it in, spots and all
to paper four chambers
with sapphires.

One day my mouth
will hold the colors of butterflies.
I'll share it in a kiss
if you want to speak in rainbows.
perhaps the silver lining
of your lips will heal
the ashes on the tip of my tongue
and set the sky free
once again.