The hole in my shirt has the same circumference as my index finger.
I tried to find some poetic meaning in it, unsurprised when I couldn’t.
Was I ever a poet, or was I just convincing myself there was more meaning in life than what was truly there?
Has a butterfly been a butterfly all this time?
It all makes me think of you.
I wonder if you felt like it was fake too.
I wonder if you pretended you saw the color blue the same as everyone else.
I wish I knew anything at all.
We were both drowning in our separate oceans.
Heavy water and tired legs.
Blue was just blue, and butterflies were just butterflies.
I could make constellations out of all the ways I would do it differently.
I’m sure they would fall out of the sky, mocking the stars as they burned.
But I would wish on anything to bring you back.
Image Sourced From The NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART
Not an Artist 