Butterfly net

 

Amy Allison

Close your eyes, he said, and something stroked my cheek, something like a needle in silk. It’s a butterfly kiss, he said. Lashes on skin. I kept my eyes closed longer still. The only way of finding my way was by touch.


Now, when I see butterflies pinioned behind glass, their wings luminous, I want to wreck the display. Ghosts have no right to be so beautiful.


Amy Allison is a writer living in California.

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