I was once told a story about a butterfly.

The butterfly was painted like a marigold.

Like the inside of papaya,

Like a tequila sunset over the water,

Like the ones on the altars of our loved ones.

She was a curious being,

Wanting to travel far,

Far like smoke coming from a cigarette.

Traversing lands that had yet to be seen.

Never longing to go back home.

Because how could these views compare

To the ones back home?

Oh, how long she could stare

At these horizons across the ocean.

But she got caught up exploring that

She forgot her way home.

I got scared

That maybe one day

I would be like that butterfly.

I was once told a story by my grandfather

About a butterfly named Papalotl.