Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings to fly.
Won’t you let me fly then , my sweet love?
I watched a butterfly soaring in the sun among the roses in your garden with colors as lovely as the dreams we saw together. The butterfly, my love, thrives on the nectar of the flowers it visits.
As a child I had foolishly believed that the butterfly acquires the color of the flower it feasts upon, roses turning it red and daffodils white. But my dear companion of faith and despair, the butterfly must live with the same colors all its life….
I came back again before dawn this morning to marvel at the sadness of the butterfly shackled to its glorious colors forever. But the butterfly lay dead, clasped between the petals of the very rose that were its life-source.
A necklace of dew drops glistened beside it.
O how we love parting presents, don’t we, my love?
The dead wander free in the skies, the living lie buried inside the walls of their homes.