Butterflies

You called. There had been a party.
Johnny was there.
His daughter was getting married soon.
The Allman Brothers were on the CD.
Melissa was playing, did I remember?
I was wearing white
it was that place on Main
with the windows.
The juke box ate a dollar
before giving up the song,
and the sun had bounced
clean off the floor.
Did I know it still caught your breath;
still fluttered around some five years later?
I had read somewhere
butterflies were suppose to die
after just fourteen days,
but damned if it didn't flutter
as if I'd come home,
hearing you again.