Of the things that didn’t last,
it’s those you’ve never
touched that somehow
lingers the longest.
The loved from afar.
The unpursued.
Like sleeping butterflies,
looking at them like inhaling
the soul of a photograph.
The exquisite ache of holding
back, of keeping still, until
the veil lifts and it’s all gone.
No coup de grace,
no festering pain to need
to be freed from. No mess.
No broken pieces.
Only faint streaks of color
in the fog of reverie,
tinting the stillness with
a music whose softness is
as close as you’ll ever get
to absolute silence.
There but not there.
Not even enough to disturb
the current state of your heart,
but just enough to remind you
in subtle brushstrokes
and tiny pinpricks of feeling
that the butterflies
had not been a dream.

Image of Arizona Muse (photographer unknown)


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