There’s a story I want to write about a man
Who lives in the house next to mine
Or in the house across the street
Or about a butterfly that interweaves a pattern
Around the pointed edges of a fern in my backyard;
A pattern that almost resembles a cocoon.
On most afternoons I see you before me,
Sweat glistening brighter than the rays of sun that
Burn dreams to a crisp outside.
In the moments I don’t see you, I envision you lying next to me,
Your face in close proximity.
Aren’t mirages supposed to cease?
The stories I want to tell never want to be told by me.
I want to write about how the man in the house
Stares at the butterfly every morning as he steps out
To collect his day’s newspaper;
How I am unsure if the butterfly dances for him
Or if he buys the newspaper as an excuse to witness
The former’s grace.
Of course, there are obvious plot holes in this story.
The butterfly wouldn’t live long enough for this to become
A habit for the man, and men do not need
Newspapers as an excuse to glance at a thing of beauty.
In the past, I wanted to be the kind of poet who describes
Her lover with only the most exquisite of metaphors
But I’ve realized I might not be the kind of person who
Likes to talk about her lover or even call someone her lover
For that matter.
To be honest, I’m not even a poet in the first place.
The thing about the sun is that you don’t talk about it.
It is enough to bathe in its presence,
To feel its rays on your skin even when you’re not looking.
It is enough to know it sustains you even when it is beyond
Your hemisphere’s line of sight.
What I mean is,
On my most afternoons, when I press my eyelids shut,
You’re the glowing sphere of light at the back of my mind
And maybe for tonight, that’s the only story I need.