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A Group of Butterflies

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On a crisp November night,
We clasped hands down Connolly Street,
Almost Christmas, but not quite,
Our destination decided by our hearts and feet.

What a strange pair we must have made,
A tall white man with a short brown maid,
Your colorless eyes twinkling in the dark,
While a homeless man pushed on his cart.

You told me about the post office,
And the bridge where the writers stood,
You said, Temple Bar isn't that bad,
As I complained that drunken tourists brood.

You tugged my hand like an anxious child,
My heels clicking on cobblestone paths,
Ticking off each pub we passed,
The City's heart drum vibration on mild.

You led me up the stairs,
And dinner was there,
Chicken and fish,
Not a morsel left on a dish.

As we exited into the night,
The promise of connection a breath away,
We stopped afoot Ha'penny Bridge,
Because stealing a kiss just felt right.

What is it called?, he asked,
A group of butterflies?
They reside inside my body this night,
And I was suddenly aware of the goodbyes.

Both joy and sadness and a bit of hope,
I opened my mouth to tell him my secrets,
A group of butterflies is a kaleidoscope,
And we must live this with no regrets.

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