In the beginning, butterflies filled my stomach.
As babies grew, they shifted and flew away,
growing outside of me as I fed and released them.
Their retreating wings filled my lungs,
sustaining my body in their absence.
Stomach empty, we settled into a new life together;
I can’t say you still give me butterflies, but
those butterflies left behind the silk I wove into
the blanket we share each night.
Cocooned in familiarity, I melt
into you and find rest.
Early on, we were a tangle of limbs
coming up for air infrequently. Now, children fill
our limbs,
our air
our time.
Over a tangle of chaos,
our eyes meet and communicate wordlessly—
a nectar enough for now.
So no, I can’t say you give me butterflies anymore.
They are long gone but have left behind
love. Love without flight
-iness. Love that traded wings for roots and
possibilities for promises.
You wrap your arms around me
and I press my ear to your
chest to hear the same flutter
that pulses through my own veins.
Our shared rhythm encircles me, and I find
something better than butterflies.
