"Closing Time"

 

"It just..." The butterfly heaved and sighed. It folded its wings together and then let them lay flat above its body in defeat. "It just feels like everything's changing so fast sometimes, you know? I mean, I know change is part of life, but..."

"Sweetie," the flower said, gently, "it's almost nighttime. You know the drill. You don't have go to the underside of that tree branch..."

"...but I can't stay here," the butterfly finished. It wished so badly that it could mistake the closing of the flower's petals, the brushing of those petals against its legs, for the start of some kind of embrace.

"Dive In"

 

The drink she poured herself got taller with each night she spent stuck in the long, echoing, after-dinner darkness, until finally she just dived in, and her hair got tangled, and her skin got cold, and she realized despite its depth that the pool she had dug herself to swim in was very small after all.

[Written after reading this amazing poem by James Wright: "In Response to a Rumor That the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia Has Been Condemned"]