butterflies are passive aggressive and put their problems on the shelf

He spoke.

And butterflies flew from his mouth to the earth, to my stomach.

We huddled under a blanket, under the moon, in 30 degree weather and he spoke so effortlessly.  The words were so easy; I wasn't the first to hear them that day.

I didn't say much.  And it wasn't because I was shocked by his verse, but rather his voice was so comfortable and familiar that I had nothing to contradict.  Because as I gazed at him, his steady jaw, I only felt fondness towards him.  My kin.

He spoke and I listened and something was fluttering in the air between us and it was the strongest love I'd ever felt.  Because I was elated by his trust and I knew it didn't change anything.  Nothing at all.

He spoke and I felt like crying.  But not the way my mother would have cried.  No, I wanted to cry because I thought I should have known all of these years.  I wanted to cry because he knew all of these years.  I wanted to cry because, in that moment, I respected him so damn much.  

I mean, the thickening of my throat was for the unfathomable courage that I'd never possess.  All of the confessions that I'd never be able say.  All of the vitality that I'd never be able to stress.

In that moment, I wanted to be him.  I wanted to lay everything out for the stars and the moon. I wanted to reciprocate.

In that moment, there were so many things that I could have given.

I could have told him that I was still hurting so entirely from my loss that summer.

I could have told him that I did terrible things to my body.

I could have told him that I always went to bed with tired eyes.

There was so much I could have given.

But the night was his.

And it was so serene.

- S.H.