The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

It didn’t hit me until today—
The hollow where your name used to sit,
The silence where my fingers once knew the rhythm
of dialing you just because.

For a while, your profile was enough—
a phantom of presence, a lingering thread.
But now, the echoes have emptied,
no image, no trace,
just a void where you once were.

Am I chasing ghosts
or simply learning to let them rest?
I wished. I hoped. I prayed.
Yet, in the end,
We turned into ashes.
Ms. Butterfly Genesis