chasing butterflies

you told me

to chase butterflies —

that that was the way

to happiness.

thank you

for telling

me that—

that feeling,

those butterflies

fluttered back

once

I stopped

chasing you.

if everything’s a flutter

then what does it matter

if lonely nights never pass

knowing I can’t have you back?

a thread —

or a string —

a most tenuous thing —

or like an anchor

in shallow puddles —

still —

does your confetti

memory moor

your yearnings

far from

the sky

denying the

chance to

chase butterflies?