Porch

 "Rebellious ants don't run to their homes. Their nests of straw and sand."

A foundation structured to be
the exactness of beauty that was
her breasts.
The woman we saw bending with tinkling
glass in her throat acknowledged us more
than pests in pestilence.
I forgot what we knew, what other things were,
what existed inside the pupae
and caverns for said pupae.
I've known for long now what love is,
and it left me with a dream to change
like the butterflies do, but don't wish to.

"I can't be what I'm not meant to." I said.

And with a tear in her eye, she knew.

"My antennas twitched at the sound of muffled,
tinkling, broken glass and I wanted
to be a dream that changed; who's shards embedded in her;
the one that saw us as we wish to be."