Three drinks in, I’m humming our song. Several sweet sips later, fluttering around, spreading my wings around twentysomethings with tantalizing accents. Metamorphosis into immeasurable inebriation, but she’s the sole destination of my mind’s migration:
Milkweed, breadeggs: grocery list in toocloseforcomfort penmanship. We’d create cocoons of comforters and sheets, shedding socially acceptable skins. Emerging weeks later, no longer larvae, but lacking long-term ambition. Mating more than most.
She’d wear black to offset her orange hair. You look like a funeral, I’d say. She wouldn’t care. She’d stare, hazel eyes at times seeming somewhat surprised. Like she expected to be hanging with someone else.
Black dress with white polka dots. Thick mascara transforms eyelashes into antennae. Mexico for the summer, she said while we got high, I fly out tomorrow.
Black attire all around. But flowers white against cold gray stone.
Waking in a bed of leaves, smell of booze still heavy on my breath. A butterfly, making its morning commute, parks on my hand. Hi there. This monarch doesn’t have her laugh, but I know. I know from the way she lands lightly, the way she doesn’t stay. The way she flies away.
Sarah A. O’Brien enjoys dark chocolate and light wordplay. Sarah is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Boston Accent Lit (www.bostonaccentlit.com). Follow her adventures: @fluent_SARAcasm.