You left me a necklace
before you died.

and it sat in a dark
blue box

My name was
written in your
meandering script
that snaking
serpentine,
dreamy shade of charcoal
against parchment

and inside the box
so softly lie a silver
chain,
& on the
end a butterfly
as stiff as skeleton,
bones

You left me your last gift,
a butterfly

and you became a poem.