If I were a song, you had left at the stanza
Notes hung in the air like wingless butterflies
I wished for a caesura but the song came to an end
And all that was left is a

s i l e n t
r e v e r b e r a t i o n
o f
w h i t e  n o i s e

The curtains were drawn
But I still heard the flapping of wings
A strong and steady staccato
That perhaps existed only in my head