Slow flutters, elegant flight, beautiful swirl of colors. It lands on the tip of my thumb. I lift it up a bit to see it better. It shifts a bit towards my eye, as if it's reading my mind.
It flutters once then stops, It flutters once more, Still on my finger, as I open the door To my classroom on the second floor
"I don't remember being here..." I think to myself "I was in the garden..." My thoughts get cut off by... A sight I believed to be buried if not burned
A single silhouette is in the classroom, sitting quietly in one of the front desks, and behind it light is shining through a window, bright enough to drown out every feature of the black outline of a person. I'm desperate to see past the light I need to know who it is
The butterfly finally leaves my thumb, It starts flying towards the person, It gets closer and closer, I still can't make out who it is... The butterfly is right next to her
I can see her bright smile through the blinding light...
I can see her bright smile through the blinding light... I knew it was her, just as I remembered,
The light behind her was fading, She's just drawing in her sketchbook, I began to see her beautiful drawings in my mind, one by one, like a slideshow of sweet memories,
I even remember the day I told her, The day I told her everything Just few words Just as few in response There was no need for more
But I've changed Changed a lot I want to talk to her again I start walking towards her desk, each step stabing a hole in my already torn heart. I remember the night after I told her, I can't forget it, most likely I never will.
Finally in an arms reach, And as I try to breach, the gap It all goes back, butterfly On my thumb, draging Me back, out The door, she leaves As well but after me, closed The door now locked forever, now This means it's lost forever, how Could it get back to the surface, memory
The butterfly flies out the window of the hallway, I look out towards the inner garden of the school. Just a sketchbook on a bench I go back to the classroom. The door is locked I try to peek through the keyhole. There's nothing inside
All empty, memories of... Well, of nothing... Nothing came after that night... They are all just reminders of what could've been Like a butterfly in september, a reminder of the spring that could've been.