I can hear the wind outside, whistling through the trees and through the small cracks in the wall. I can hear the patter of little feet, and big, sneaking around, trying to go unnoticed in the night. I can hear the water trickling, in the sink, and my ears. It's such a quietly noisy night. Darkness surrounding in the bright lights.
I can hear your thoughts. Whispers of a butterfly within my mind. I felt its tears floating down, fixing with my own. Your tears. The tears of a butterfly. So soft, so very sweet. Like nectar upon my lips. Let me taste them again. Let me taste you again.
I remember those nights, like a vivid movie, scenes replaying time and again in my mind. I find myself speaking the parts with the memory as one would while watching a movie they had seen a dozen times before. Such a beautiful movie. A tragic love story, a comedy, a horror movie, an adventure. All so beautifully stitched together, a work of art which can never be duplicated or painted again - only looked at, admired, remembered, and written about for years to come.
And missed. Ah so missed. Dreams are born from this memory, this film, these whispers, the tears of this butterfly. Dreams are born as easily as the dream once died. Perhaps it never died. Perhaps it simply could not be heard over the whistle of the wind.
