Butterflies

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.
- Rabindranath Tagore

 Come home. Drop my things. Like every other time. But this time, something was different. No longer did I run to the computer, or turn on the tv. Instead, sitting in silence, I contemplated the butterflies. The fluttering, the thumping and perhaps the fragility, of what exactly I could not logically explain. Clutching my pillow and staring into space, my mind raced with the possibilities what what could be, paced with the thoughts of what wouldn’t be, and ignored the thoughts of what should be. Never has something been so terrifying, yet so comforting. To let another affect me so profoundly that I’ve even come to doubt myself, my thoughts and my emotions, has left me amazed. Too mant times have yearned to reach out and touch, but the sickening, unrelenting fear will always keep me to myself and will always leave me to entertain my selfish and sick fantasies. So, instead I’ve come to rely on the little things. Giggling at inside jokes, playful banter, goodnight messages, and sometimes charming little text messages that have turned me from a hardass bee-otch to a squealing little girl. But when all is said and done, perhaps the scariest thing is not what I could be capable of, but instead the thought that maybe, just maybe, he has felt the butterflies too.