Tiny pairs of wings in colours of lavender & mint flutter over rose chiffon, hanging over the curtains of my window
Outside, the world settles slowly in the white night. It's most unbearable because I recall that such lovely creatures have no place in this stoic wasteland at all.
There is no warm wind to lift their feather-lightΒ Β wings, nor flowers in which they may sip on delicately
Jack Frost would nip at their tiny bodies Father Winter would freeze their wings in motion
The cold winter wind would whip their breaths away. A sunrise pattern on the snow, littered with colourful decay.
Broken butterflies- frozen; for the world on display
I still collect my voice with a tone of surprise, that they continue to flutter by inside next to this bed in which I lay.
For without your arms wrapped around my waist the air in here is much the same,