Huh. Breakability.

My skin feels prickly, like there's static racing across it, and I can't stop thinking about you.
It seems like there are little black butterflies everywhere, and did you know that you'll live forever if you break one? Orson Scott Card said that, about breaking butterflies. Maybe he knew something, there.
Butterflies are like hearts, like glass. All these decisions perched on the edge of a knife, so very easy to shatter, and live forever. Oh, mercy, I would not live forever for all the beauty of the world. This sort of beauty has a marvellous terror in it, and I want nothing of it beyond the set time.
Mercy, do I miss you. You're only a morning away, and some hours, and a sleep. You are just a few breaths away from me, and all this ice in my veins is burning away at me, that slow cold patience that takes so much of my focus, but not enough, never enough. I miss you; I love you. My heart is fluttering slow and steady, as even as ocean waves, as bright as black delicate wings, ahhh, sweet beautiful breakable things....