Butterfly Cauldron

A poem I wrote at work today. First draft, no title.


She says there isn't anything left
Not a single piece of me I recognize in these
pictures or this mirror.
When did my hair turn brown and
my eyes go dark?
There was, I think, a freckle on
my cheek.
Sera used to kiss it at night,
before we went to bed.
It's gone now.
I'm all faded, pale skin unkissed.
She says there isn't anything left
but the bones and fragments of me.
And it's time to rebuild
Time to put down mirrors
and pictures
and memories of lost passions.
Time to love brown hair and
dark eyes, unkissed skin and
freckless cheeks.
Even time for empty beds and
blank notebooks.
She says there isn't anything left
but me and time and space to remember.

Labels: poetry