I hope the butterflies will remember me
when I am long gone from here.
Maybe they’ll share new secrets with
different flowers; perhaps they will spill
some of my own into those waiting ears.
It no longer matters: those moments
of mine they are certain to reveal
I am gone with the setting sun.
I am carried away with light
that tangles into a soft wind.
I am off to new adventures, to
a different kind of living than
the one I had
with my butterflies.
Maybe they miss me.
But I think I can take it, if
they slowly lose the memory of
my skin, my laugh and my lips.
They are just butterflies, after all.
I’ve started a new existence
in some place where the secrets
we once whispered to each other
could not take root.