Of Kisses. 

​Some poetry always sticks to my eyelids everytime you kiss them. 


The Rain.

It rained in the night. It was raining butterflies. Every sound was drowned out with a billion wings flapping  and falling onto the Earth. Softly crying as if they were newborn babies. They fell with spongy thuds onto the flower beds and the pretty green grassblades. Butterflies, they were singing a sad song and wailing. Blue-winged and bringing death on their light shoulders, it kept raining butterflies endlessly. The next morning, everyone had wings to choose from. But they couldn’t fly. Not unless they chose to shed themselves to be the humble and the beautiful. Mere flightless humans. The butterflies kept lamenting and regretting their apparently worthless sacrifice. They kept singing. Haunting and gathering souls.