(photograph by Leanna Banana)
He did not fall in love when he fucked her in the stairwell
with dirty knees and hands clutched tightly around throat.
And she shed no tears for the ghosts he carried in his pocket
with money for whores and unfinished poems.
Her tears were hers alone.
But beneath summer’s open window, a butterfly flew in
and settled with broken wing upon her thigh.
For nine days it lived with them in their bed,
surviving on sugar water and fluttering from knee to breast
as she came with lips pressed against her cunt.
And on the tenth day, its wings stopped beating.
It was only then that she wept and his heart exploded.
Original work by by j. scott grand is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.