Butterfly

She was lipstick upon my faded heart-
an ability to mourn something more than parted
words on floating blue wings- I fell-
the last of those hidden barricades crashing
with her scent against this old skin-

And how would I ever know the soul of atonement-
in which she played with somber tones-
the cello symphony that raged in nocturnal pirouettes-
on worn down roads that etched together unknowns-
she was unknown- even to herself-

I watched her through brevity- small and fragile-
quirks and kinks that transition our pain-
reminding old eyes how to see colour once again-
but nothing lasts forever- and in slowing heartbeats
she was gone-

The seraph whose name spoke anointed-
the dreamer with lungs to fill the universe
with passion only read about in her aged books-
“There’s more story to their yellowing pages”- she whispers-
and my hearts dies- to hold her tenderly again-