Happiness is a Butterfly by Jared Maldonado
Photography
The Blue Maiden by Jessica Lee
Poetry
Perhaps you could have loved her--
Had she not been born in the dead of winter,
With veins of ice,
Heart of stone,
And soul dusted with frost.
Her sweetness is a sharp thing, like snow on your tongue--
But each flurry melts when it touches your mouth,
And her smile withers away as soon as it blooms.
It holds no malice, no treachery,
But it is fleeting, distant, and ever-so-cold.
You thought your flame warm enough to thaw her,
Yet it is impossible--
Just as it is impossible to
Halt the turning seasons, or to
Control the roaring tides.
It is simple enough, really, to accept this,
But the ache of
Knowing,
Of
Understanding,
Is etched into your smiles--
The fine constellation of cracks
Spiderwebbing and branching, until
Even you
Can taste the bittersweet tang of
Denouement
Lingering on your lips.
You feel her touch you--
Fluttering, delicate fingertips
Glancing off your breastbone--
Barely a wisp of contact, a mere brush of skin--
But it expands,
Seeping into your blood, your bones,
Like ice crawling over a midnight-glass lake.
You know it then, the danger of her siren song--
How easy it is to fall into her embrace,
And how difficult it is to claw back out.
You come away with a hollow in your chest
And a burning at your throat,
Tears frozen on lowered lashes and
Cheeks painted blue;
Your eyes are full of sorrow and something almost like regret,
But answer me this:
What did you expect to get,
Courting the stark winter wind
And dancing with frostbitten beauty?
Had she not been born in the dead of winter,
With veins of ice,
Heart of stone,
And soul dusted with frost.
Her sweetness is a sharp thing, like snow on your tongue--
But each flurry melts when it touches your mouth,
And her smile withers away as soon as it blooms.
It holds no malice, no treachery,
But it is fleeting, distant, and ever-so-cold.
You thought your flame warm enough to thaw her,
Yet it is impossible--
Just as it is impossible to
Halt the turning seasons, or to
Control the roaring tides.
It is simple enough, really, to accept this,
But the ache of
Knowing,
Of
Understanding,
Is etched into your smiles--
The fine constellation of cracks
Spiderwebbing and branching, until
Even you
Can taste the bittersweet tang of
Denouement
Lingering on your lips.
You feel her touch you--
Fluttering, delicate fingertips
Glancing off your breastbone--
Barely a wisp of contact, a mere brush of skin--
But it expands,
Seeping into your blood, your bones,
Like ice crawling over a midnight-glass lake.
You know it then, the danger of her siren song--
How easy it is to fall into her embrace,
And how difficult it is to claw back out.
You come away with a hollow in your chest
And a burning at your throat,
Tears frozen on lowered lashes and
Cheeks painted blue;
Your eyes are full of sorrow and something almost like regret,
But answer me this:
What did you expect to get,
Courting the stark winter wind
And dancing with frostbitten beauty?
- They call her Loneliness—and even the strongest of us succumb to her pull