My Butterflies

When I was little, my parents, especially my grandparents, used to tell me that I behaved and spoke as if I had butterflies in my head. I was too naughty and too restless for their pace.

Thirty years latter, my butterflies have gone all the way down to my stomach. And it’s so very hard to agitate them. Maybe they’ve grown older or something because I very very rarely feel them. But it’s a sweet quick moment when they start opening their wings in a tiny little inside tornado. And it happens only when my inside eyes show me long-lost people and the funny things we did together. Because those people are all gone and have taken their belongings with them. So here I am, with my butterflies that will soon become moths and eat my dreams from inside out.