The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

Another late-night mine is running—
a torrent of verses unbound
in the quiet hum of sleepless hours.
I don’t know where these words will settle,
but they must find their final rest
for me to taste the peace beyond the flare
of yesterday’s burning reflections.

My thoughts, restless as city lights on darkened streets,
linger on his fading silhouette—
each memory a whisper, a ghost
tracing lines of what once was.
Yet, as he inks a new chapter
in a story all his own,
I see our past dissolve into the margins,
An echo is no longer meant for my page.

Between the pulse of midnight breaths
and the soft scratch of pen on paper,
I search for myself in fragments of what remains—
in a truth that clears the clutter of old pages,
so I can embrace the calm of beginnings
even if they sing the elegy of an ending.

Ms, Butterfly Genesis