Today I saw two butterflies flirting.
They were so absorbed in those aerobatics that they didn’t notice I was there.
They even landed on my leg, without even noticing the danger that gesture might offer.
That’s what happens with the first passion.
Is their love strong, because they were never hurt before?
Have they tasted rejection, have they felt the emptiness of goodbye?
Have they known they were once scary nymphs?
Do they understand the meaning of the word metamorphosis?
Has someone told them that they should not fly in this rainy, cold, Winter day?
That their love is supposed to bloom in Spring?
I didn’t give up on love.
I just need to dance.
I just need to breathe.