A mischievous imp, that one. The glint of her wings catches the pupil like the times when you were a child and though you saw something between the leaves of the trees, and absolutely had to catch it. After minutes you would discover you were chasing after air, and she is much the same.
She's a butterfly disguised as a lightning bug, born from the even breathing of a sleeping infant. She cloaks in toasty comfort, but only if she chooses you. As much as you try to trap her in curled hands and keep her emerald glow in your gaze, she only land on those she wants. She's as unconquerable as the monarchs and swallowtails.
I remember the nights she caught me at ten when old tv shows flickered the screen and mom curled herself into the couch with her chin on her palm. The protectiveness surrounding me served as a cradle. I think its children she loves the most. I miss her. Maybe someday I'll hold out my palms to her dainty feet and she'll recognize me. A friend of old.
until then I'll just finish Spanish and History. 3 am discovers me again.
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