Coffee and Butterflies

I arrived late into the night,
you were—of course—precisely right.
You sat beside a painted face
that bore your calm, your borrowed grace.
So close it felt like mimicry,
the art conspired to look at me.

All eyes were mine—except for yours.
You studied pasta, nothing more.
It felt unfair, the way it went:
you didn’t look; I was intent.

I told a friend—small, reckless truth—
I liked you (fatal, in my youth).
Alas, I missed the serpent’s grin;
my whisper learned how fires begin.
By dusk, the rumor crossed the room
and landed where my courage bloomed.

Days passed like cups left growing cold.
I thought the moment would grow old.
But fate—an excellent concierge—
aligned our hours, edge to edge.

Again, the gallery, the frames.
Again, you standing in your name.
This time, you met me eye to eye—
no pasta left to alibi.

You handed coffee, calm and sure.
I took it—and could not be cured.
My stomach learned a lighter air,
my ribs made room for sudden prayer.
I smiled, pretending I was fine
while butterflies rehearsed a fire.

— Casey Huang