like a butterfly’s other wing,
same black teardrop, charcoal outline,
fluttering ahead, slightly out of reach.

net, in my sinuses, down my throat,
bile and secrets and yesterday’s chinese,
pulled out, one rough motion.

and when the antennas rub my palms:
hi. hello. nice to meet you.
and when my thumb rubs the scales:
your mine. i’m sorry. want to hang?

bulging eyes meet mine
in accident? in impulse?
in meaning and fate and answer —

in nothing.

you’re a bug, yo.
and i’m deluded.