happiness is a butterfly.

which when pursued, is always beyond our grasp. so he sat down quietly, like a desiderating nine year old in the backyard of his grandmother's house steeling himself and not move, just so a butterfly would land on his shoulder and feel its lightest soul and fragility.

but the butterfly never came down.

he thought that maybe he didn't look friendly enough, that maybe his karma wasn't much, overthinking like a child would that what if this butterfly knows our soul. so he smiles the brightest and be the kindest.

diced tomatoes and pepper. seasoned meat. browning sliced baguette on the non-stick pan that he flips with a prong fork. three big slices of butter on the silver pan. smoking wine poured stew pot. white and yolk on a bowl of sugar and flour.

he does all of that everyday, starting at every 5am in every date in the calendar. house chores, self-care, watering and chatting with our lane of cactuses like an everyday happy day. loving us every night, every morning, every second, like it's the last time.

pulling you to his lap. you nestle in, your head tucked under his chin. with an arm, he secures you, he inclines into you, curling his body around you as if you're his centerpiece. his hand strokes your back, cheek rubbing on the top of your head ever so sweetly, ending it with an affectionate kiss.

this is the dream he woke up from and he hoped there was another to wake up at, not this where he and you had to say goodbye.

not this where you have cancer.