There were a lot of butterflies that day,
the one when you left,
pouring out from inside of me
where they had been cleverly hiding,
where no one could watch them grow
but I could feel their budding strength.
Our interactions their sustenance:
words for food,
kisses for cocoons,
as they morphed from caterpillars
into colorful butterflies
quivering inside of me.
But one day the clouds came
and never left us alone,
they knew better than we did
that it was time to fly
away. The necessities for life
I could no longer supply:
the shelter became too dark,
too cold and too jaded
for something so bright.
The butterflies flew away
that day, realizing the sun
wasn’t coming back.
Not for them and not for me.
