Bubbles Leaking Like Butterflies' Wings or Butterflies Make Fine Bread

He lies on her sofa and watches a bubble break in the air. The bubble's echo is slight, and he feels only a slight dewy feeling on the tip of his nose as it pops.

"I'm glad that long-forgotten tears are irrecoverable", she thinks.
A ray of sunshine slices through the next bubble.
Floating over from behind the damask sofa where he lies, languid like a puma.
A slippery little balloon made of gossamer floats between them. He stretches out his tongue and puts it in his mouth for pleasure.
Seems like a spotlight is in order to project light into the shadowy recesses of his mind.
She's seen indications of its emptiness.
"Show them oil slicks?", he would ask, "disaster areas in the head?" That didn't work for him, apparently.
Still, always, he sticks out his tongue, and licks the rainbow film off the latest bubble.
Her flickering and ever quick flame, lights and extinguishes in the hefty droop of an eyelid.
In the time it takes to lift .000000013 kilograms of eyelid into the open position, he finds himself in the off position.
Butterflies jettison fuel from their wings as they come in for an early landing.
Otherwise the landing will be too heavy for their fragile bodies; snap in the middle upon impact.
That would be an awful sight.
Poor un-spun bees, their stripes unravelled to be used as ribbons for the prince's birthday presents.
Perhaps he'll use them for wallpaper.
Paste them up around the walls of his favourite salon.
Perhaps she will leave tonight for good.