When it started,
I felt the butterflies coming back.

But it was different this time.

No longer could I feel myself floating, instead
fear followed the fluttering.
My heart had grown thorns in defense to stop Last Time
from ever happening again, the butterflies
didn't even get a chance to fly
before their wings were clipped.

Corpses littered the floor. Decay followed.

That was the end, I thought.
I'll forever smell of rot,
It's what I deserve because I do not
want to have to romance an empty shell again.

Days went by, and the rot became compost.

I think it was when I heard You sing
that the first flower sprouted.
A drop of color in my mangled, gray meadow,
the sweet scent of pollen amidst the miasma.

More flowers grew, from the ashes of What Used To Be,
Away from the Last Time,
and towards the You and Me.

The old butterflies are gone, but it's fine,
because I found a new one.
Only one.
It flits around the First Flower.

I named it after You.