Are we worthy of love?

"We, who are not handsome, nor brave, nor powerful, yet somehow believe, like Pinkerton, that we deserve a butterfly..."

The question to be asked here is "Do all men truly deserve something as pure?" It is a saying that all men only fall for women because they want to get laid, and don't give about a woman's feelings. Just as long as they run to "Home" a girl's feelings are irrelevant. But truly, are all men like that? Personally I think not. I believe that there are men who want a legitimate kind of love. The type of love that would make it seem like you would be meeting that person for the very first time every time you stare into their eyes.

However, the idea of men only having lust for a woman is stronger in this case. But here is an idea. Does lust not lead to love eventually? Shouldn't there be some kind of sexual attraction between a man and a woman before falling in love? Experiencing lust is inevitable. However, it is up to the man on how he would like to show that lust. Would he show it in a romantic way? Or would he just be the typical type to "Hit it and quit it"?

Looking back at the original quote stated from above, I personally believe that not all men deserve a woman as pure as a butterfly. Even if you are handsome, charming, etc. If at the end of the day you are nothing more than a shell of a good looking person, with out a heart, then you do not deserve a butterfly. However, if you are not good looking, but your heart is in a pure form, then you deserve a "butterfly". It isn't about how good your face look, or how toned your body is. But how good your heart is, and how toned your personality is. So I disagree with Gallimard's statement. Not all men deserve a butterfly, even if they are good looking. If the man does not live purely, then they are not worthy of love from any type of woman.

July of '95

We originally met around ‘93
But lets take it to July of ’95,
Where my best friend and I,
Shared the best summer of our lives,
When we were naïve and didn’t give a shit,
Whatsoever, about the world around us,
We played together fiercely,
As if we were two cubs being spied upon by British men,
Nah we were just best friends,
But you know the whole saying
“The best lovers always start off as friends”
Well that’s another story,
Let’s talk about a story of innocence,
My innocence,
Her innocence,
Our innocence,

I just approached the age of four,
Thermometer read one oh two,
So my best friend and I rendezvoused to the front of Orthello Street,
See Santa Clara was known for its notorious Summers,
But nah, that defeats the purpose,
We were scavengers,
We foraged my grandparents’ and her house for spare change,
Hoping to make that buck twenty five before Three o’clock.
So it would be the ice cream man to be greeted by us,
Not us by him,
So we made a buck fifty before three with ten minutes to spare,
We sat outside together in our shorts, t-shirts, and Nikes,
Blistering,
One Oh two,
Felt like death, but there we waited,
What felt like an eternity,
But before we knew it
“Pop goes the weasel”
We stood and looked down the street,
There he was,
We ran down the street,
He drove up the street,
We met half-way,
He stopped,
We shuffled through our pockets hearing the cha-ching of the coins,
She pointed at the double stick orange popsicle,
In which I agreed,
We sat on the side content,
She finished her popsicle before I even started mine,
“It’s hot! I want more!”
She cried,
I offered her some of mine,
But she refused,
Instead,
In a flash,
Her lips touched mine,
I looked at her with only confusion,
My heart raced like a hummingbird flapping its wings,
The butterflies emerged from their cocoons in my stomach,
I was lost,
Looking back, it made no sense thinking that our lips meeting would make her cooler,
But somehow, it made us both cool,
“I saw it on TV, a man and lady did it under a sprinkler,”

I became flustered,
From that point,
The experience of men blanketed me,
She reaped me of innocence,
I reaped her of hers,
But even though,
It was my first kiss,
And how sweet it was,
Ice cold orange,
It all began when we met in ’93,
But came to the first kiss in July of ’95,
When the mix of sweat and flies temporarily ceased,
With chill running down our spines from the connection of our lips like a long lost puzzle,
When we were reaped of innocence,
And the rest of our lives began,
You could ask me what happened in July of ’95,
I could tell you I turned four,
I could tell you I celebrated the birth of my little brother,
But I would tell you I kissed my best friend,
And oranges from that point became my favorite fruit.