The damselflies danced-until she returned. Michelle Liew
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May was tough for Eddie–he’d walk to the lake for conversations.
The damselflies there were partners.
They hung onto his every word. Pranced with his excitement. Buzzed with his fear. Their wings drooped with his sadness.
That May was different. The flies didn’t prance. They didn’t unfurl their wings.
They hovered above the lilies, fixated on Eddie as he approached.
With someone. Sweet. Dimpled. With lengthy, black tresses.
They kissed. The damselflies hovered closer, unblinking.
When they left, the flies disappeared. In their place stood a woman.
Pale, with black tresses.
She was his; before he made the lake her home.
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