Down from the skies, butterflies descend to fields riddled with mice. Enticed by their fluttering, he walked out into the tall grass and met with surprise.

He's spinning his wheels while walking fields to reach town and coming back alone. And two miles west in deep unrest and sadness lives a girl he'd never own. Pepper gray sky. A dirt road dry except for its muddy shoulder.

Out in the grass he sees the lass, that same girl who played dead, that same girl who never bled, full of barren, droughty veins — but in the field there she still looked so pretty and so plain. It was either delusion or some blood transfusion had cured her pain.

Blood or no blood, his flower bud was no fossil, she was a precious stone. He recalled the way the music played in the background when they were on the phone. "Keep On Loving You" and "The Glory of Love" are the songs he can recall. Ironic, in fact, that this soundtrack accompanied their ending.

And it was not fair, yet he did not make the rules. But in his next life he plans not to suffer fools — at least not gladly — and yet sadly in this one he remains a tool.

Because whenever she comes on, she comes on like a carving knife. I guess he thought she'd be his wife; it was a stupid notion. When he saw her with the butterflies, dancing in the meadow, he should have just walked on.

"What's that feeling in your stomach when I'm walking through your door?" he asked. "Don't even try to tell me you ain't feelin' that. Your emotions are like a light switch now, when not too long before you'd be gasping when I stepped upon your welcome mat."

She frowned. "Boy, I left you for a reason and here you still deny the truth, the way that you neglected and mistreated love, all the times you failed to listen and the words you spoke uncouth. Boy, it isn't any secret that I had enough." These words she said just broke him.

And as he cries, she denies the butterflies sprung from the glands behind her eyes. Inside she feels immaculate but she wouldn't know even if it were right.