Butterflies

I wrote the original version of this in October 2016.  I didn't feel like it was finished, so I've been reworking it.



I remember the day you set your suitcases by the bedroom door.
That day was our forever.

I'd forget to breathe
when you stood close,
drowning in you
until your hands in my hair
brought me back to the surface
and made my skin burn for you.

I didn't know
what I wouldn't see.

You were never going to stay.

My void was most valuable
so I hollowed myself out
by plucking your promises from the air
and swallowing them whole
like chocolate covered razor blades
holding on to every accidental touch as proof.

I couldn't live up to your version of me.

I remember the day I found an empty home.
Your suitcases were gone.
The only thing you'd ever unpacked
was displeasure.