Metamorphosis

I’m a butterfly now.

Floated all the way

to the west coast,

made all my dreams come true.

White Mustang in a wind

I fought for, I float

past Ballona with Hollywood-worthy

sunsets mirrored in my eyes.

You’d love it here

but you don’t have wings

and have always taken comfort 

in lackluster. I shine and take

comfort in an elderly man in Santa Monica

who drinks coffee alone.

I stopped to admire the emerald silk

peeking out of his pocket.

He glittered.

Excuse me sir, but you 

look like the most interesting 

person in the world. 

British actor, rose 

to Hollywood stardom in the 60s.

Golden Globes and eight-ball 70s,

full of the kind of women heroes fuck.

I never saw his eyes, but his sunglasses 

painted stories and sunsets, 

through years of unnatural radiance 

I’d unapologetically steal given the chance.

I’d love you here,

but I’m a butterfly now.

Floated all the way

to the west coast.

Home of the most interesting man in the world. 

And the version of me

drenched in luminescence.

Who made it out of that shit town.