The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

All day, I chase silence,
But silence refuses me.
Not knowing if you are whole,
If I still linger inside you,
If memory serves, I cannot see.

I tell myself—let the past rest,
let the present be a present,
Let the future write its name.
But the wanting persists,
pulls at my ribs,
presses against my skin.

You were quiet,
The calm in my trembling,
The hush to the frantic pulse in my chest.
When your sister was here,
words were enough—
a question, a sigh,
a moment of knowing without asking.

Now silence is mine alone to hold.
No hands to pass it to,
no voice to soften its weight.
So I learn, slowly, painfully,
to soothe myself
by myself.

Ms. Butterfly Genesis