Seeing how beautiful you were,
I studied to be beautiful, too,
Making myself beautiful with poems I gave to you.
There are two types of humans:
Butterfly and fly: Either beautiful—and aloof,
Or ugly—and they come right at you: these two the only truth.
Punish me directly, and tell me that I
Am the germy, roaring, fly.
I am that horrible fly, and here is proof:
This is the terrible thing about beauty
And love—only one can be the butterfly,
If both are beautiful. Two can’t be aloof:
Of the two lovers, one has to be the fly:
Too much aloofness—and love will die;
And there is even more aloofness when
Both expect the other to say, “Alright then,
I will be the fly!
Maybe you are slightly more beautiful than I.”
Beauty is aloof: watch a butterfly flit away
With fragile, colorful, wings. A fly wants to stay.
Punish me directly. Say
Exactly why you said you could not see me today.
In the name of my poetry. Please tell me why.
Oh cruelty! She will not speak—butterfly to butterfly.