Dear Readers,

So yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing this really bittersweet story. Full disclosure, I heard the story in my head. Yesterday was kind of slow, so my brain decided to weave a tale for me to keep my mind occupied. It was about a guy who fell in love with this butterfly or butterfly fairy or something. I’m not very clear on the details of that part, but I promise that’s not important. It was kinda poetic and heartbreaking in the way that you don’t necessarily mind in the end. I typically shy away from sad stuff, but the story legitimately told itself.

Anyways, the story goes something like this.

A young man found himself lying down in a meadow, watching the clouds blow by, when a monarch butterfly landed on his nose. The man smiled as the butterfly stretched her gorgeous wings in his view. He admired her, more so than the clouds he had come to see.

He sat up and put the butterfly on his finger and told her she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. To his surprise, the butterfly thanked him and returned the sentiment. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, too,” she said.

Without hesitation, and surprisingly, without confusion, he asked “how can that be? I’m sure you see beautiful flowers everywhere your wings take you.”

She looked up into his curious brown eyes and said, “yes, but I chose to land on you.” He bit his lip in glee and began carrying her around the meadow.

The man and the butterfly were inseparable as the day drew on. He fed her and brushed her wings. She sang for him and brought him gifts of flower petals. They shared stories and truths, moments and secrets. He told her how he wished he could stay in the meadow forever. She told him of a flower, high above the trees, that her delicate wings couldn’t reach.

As the sun started to fall, the man knew the monarch longed for that distant flower. She didn’t sing as much and her pretty wings refused to unfold. He couldn’t “I can help you reach it,” he said. “I can climb the trees and you can fly from my hand to reach your flower.”

The butterfly’s eyes lit up as she scurried up to the man’s shoulder. He patted her wings one last time and started to climb the nearest tree. She pounced excitedly up and down on the man’s shoulder as he climbed higher and higher, until he reached the top. As he broke the tree line, the butterfly took off towards her flower. He called to her saying he’d wait. He waved to her as she disappeared on the horizon. He whispered to her when he could no longer see her.

He waited.

The sun had fallen. The clouds had covered the sky. The meadow below became rain soaked.

And he waited.

The sun returned. The clouds had spread. The meadow lit up once again.

And he waited.

He waited until his grip weakened and he fell from the tree.

The young man found himself lying down in the meadow, watching the clouds blow by. He got up, dusted the grass from his clothes, and went home.

The end.

So, this story was a bit different that what I’m used to playing with. Normally I’d go for the more heavily descriptive approach. Something like

“…the mosaic wings of the butterfly batted up and down like the lashes of beautiful, bashful eyes.”

But I tried something different. If you don’t like it, that’s tough. Oh yeah…also, please, please, please, look up the word “viceroy” when you get a chance. The title really adds to the bitch ass poetry of the story.

Anyways, I’m done. Time to go through the motions of the day and deal with another day of awkward moments and whispers. Fuck. This. Job.