butterflies
I want to be the girl in dusty victorian blues,
sitting lonely on the fence, dreaming music,
wanting you.
There are things I remember that I am afraid
to forget, landscapes and smiles and brief strands of
thought between us,
days when I wandered ghostlike and somehow
you found me, moments I thought you loved me,
I thought I loved you—
I am being eaten from the inside by
thousands of hungry butterflies. I feel
a little hollow,
but I don't miss you.
