n e v e r l a n d !

his hair waves over his forehead, eyes slanted and small though they hold the universe and her stars. you find yourself getting lost in them enough that not even a map could help you come out from where you’ve started. you don’t remember the exact moment you looked at him and saw him differently, tasted the saccharine that decorated his smile. he was like a tall glass of rosé, pink and glittery under the dim light of your room, movie playing in the width of his eyes. 

you fell into those eyes, unable to find your way back up. addicted, you found yourself in his heart, scrambling and grasping for anything to ground you. 

his clothes fit him well, spun around his body, falling over his fingers just the slightest bit. his smile and his voice, you could listen and watch for days. fuschia-colored glasses resting on the bridge of your nose, light bright and haloing over his head. 

maybe you were too in over your head, your heart beating out of your chest, and at this point, it was out of your hands. you watched, helplessly, caged, as your heart fits snugly into his palms, watch still when his smile, wet with salted tears, directs itself at your heart. 

you pain. it swooping in and out of you in waves.  you distance yourself, crawl your way out of his heart but not entirely. in the darkness, you settle, away from his mind, his eyes. from afar, his tears stop dripping, stop soiling the pink of his cheeks. from afar, you care -- in his mind, mends each wound that opens with antiseptic, honey that slips and slides and rests on his bottom lip. 

visual : kaleidoscope wings flutter, hit the curves of the glass; an outsider looking in. light drips in, hits the colors differently and the scenery changes. it’s dark, the butterfly tires and falls, thirsting for the outside world, thirsting for the droplets of love that taste like honey. 

( “i’ll tell him soon, i will... i just...” 

no, you say, reassure, kaleidoscopic eyes flickering. you wave your hands around, the smile reaching your eyes before it drops to your lips, dimples carving deep within your cheeks. it’s fine, take your time.

rainbow-esque tears, lined with diamonds, drip down the sides of his face, smile that could rival the brightness of the sun, rival the beauty of the moon, curving on his lips. there’s no rush.  ) 

the butterfly recites stories to itself, to keep it going, to keep it alive. pretending that the outside world isn’t anything but fakes. that the inside of his cage is more entertaining than anything else. light bounces off the colors of the wings, though it dims, antennae flickering. an ant nears, crawls under the crack of the cage and keeps it company; though, it lacks in color, it’s soul dark as it’s shell, it speaks volumes to the butterfly, tells him to keep going even when the wings begin to deteriorate, begin to wither. 

( “when are you going to tell hyung, huh? by the time you say anything, i’ll be old.” harmless laughter, gleaming eyes, browns that don’t even compare to your colorful ones. you laugh too, unable to say much. 

soon, you utter, smile not reaching your eyes this time, the colors now beginning to rust over. )

the ant takes it’s leave, dusts off the wisdom and gives it to the butterfly. the wings lift, like water giving life to a curled plant. it flies, it raises itself again, despite the restrain, the glass keeping it in, it tries and it pushes. 

but you wonder, palms pressing close to the glass, owlish eyes peering from the outside in : when a butterfly loses it’s will to fly, would it lay there until the wings flutter again? will it try again and again, pressing against the glass, trapping it inside? when it flaps relentlessly, tirelessly, will it fall again, then rise again? when the jagged shards of reality pin themselves into kaleidoscopic wings, will the butterfly realize it’s worth?

( “it’s so obvious you like him, how’s it going?” 

you splutter, cheeks going ruddy, then you lift a hand to shake it and look off. there’s nothing going, hyung. the words hit hard, strike through your chest like a butcher knife. reality raises her hand and slaps you across the face, telling you to wake. don’t be like that! )

kaleidoscopic wings turn transparent, colors that were once so bright and warmth, singing with life; seeping out from under the trapped butterfly. your hands leave the glass, lift it and you cradle it.