You sound like someone
who deeply loved someone
but ended up like a caterpillar
without wings.
Still, it felt good
watching them fly
among beautiful flowers
in a lush garden,
while you crawled,
counting the days
until your wings would grow
and you could join them.
And yeah,
that day arrived.
He got his wings.
Different from the others,
unique in their own way.
But the butterflies
he had watched for so long
were nowhere to be found.
He flew farther,
meeting butterflies
of different colours,
patterns
and shapes,
but none of them
felt familiar.
Somehow,
he couldn’t genuinely feel for them
the way he once felt
when he was still
a caterpillar.
Those butterflies
had fed his dreams.
They gave him hope.
They made him believe
he was truly loved.
They would come
and sit on his branch
just to greet him,
saying,
you are nearly there.
Soon,
we will fly together
from flower to flower,
pollinating lovely blooms
of every kind.
Together.
But the butterflies
he met now
were busy
in their own worlds,
posing for pictures,
showing their colours,
flying wherever
they pleased.
Somehow,
somewhere,
he felt lost.
Alone.
Then,
in a quiet corner
of his heart,
a strange thought appeared.
What if
they were the same butterflies?
What if
only their colours
had changed?
What if
they recognised him
but chose not to come near
because he hadn’t become
the butterfly
they had imagined?
He looked at his wings.
Am I not beautiful?
And when even a butterfly
begins to doubt
the beauty
of its own wings,
tell me,
who in this world
is beautiful?
