I refuse to write of butterflies—
how scholars' brushes dissect their grace,
stitching wings with threads of tragedy,
painting frailty in liquid gold.
You, too, wear their borrowed sorrow,
practicing the art of folded wings,
lowering your gaze like evening mist
over unspoken wounds.
Yet what you veil in silence
grows roots in my marrow—
each untold word a fossil
carved deeper than moth dust
in amber.