By Raph al Guul

Its wings are dark red with a beautiful blue circle on each side. I feel the warmth of your hand on mine as you gently shift your fingers to place the little creature in my palm. A faint shudder goes through its wings as if a sudden but peaceful breeze had caught it unawares. But there is no wind and no sound, just you giving me butterflies. The next one is different, bright yellow and brown, speckled with harmony. It rests calmly on your index finger, looking beautiful – like it could never do any harm to anyone. I wonder if that is why you are giving these beautiful creatures to me. And I wonder how harmless they really are. But I don’t know the answer to either of these questions and beside this confusion I quite like that you are giving me butterflies.

This one is just plain white, simple elegance. Again I feel your touch as you carefully complete the third transfer. It briefly lowers its gracile wings, as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of the operation by settling down a bit. What do butterflies do? They flutter and fly, they bring the sun and they find the flowers. They like the warmth of summer as I like the warmth of your hand. Butterflies are more beautiful than Flora herself, yet they are always with her. Maybe you are a little bit like a butterfly. More beautiful than them, yet I never see you without butterflies. I wonder how you do it.

Royal blue, smaller than the others, but no less impressive. Like a tiny ruler of the world, now sitting in my palm thanks to you. Does it like being with me? I don’t dare ask, afraid that I might not receive an answer – and ashamed of my ignorance. Terrified by a minuscule butterfly with insurmountable grace. Maybe someday I will see it fly off into the light of a spring day or a pleasant summer morning. Will I be happy then, or will I miss it when it’s gone? Maybe the fear and the shame will leave with it – there is no way of telling. And if it did happen, would it ever come back, would any of them? One more tingling sensation on the tip of my fingers. This one is black and gold, a modest arrangement of shade on a slender canvas.

I look up and you smile at me. I have so many questions and doubts, but most of all I wonder if you know that you give me butterflies.

You give me butterflies

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