Butterfly Rot

I will always love you but

loving you is fruitless.

Like butterflies rotting inside their cocoons,

there is so much that could have been

good.

And I think of you

as those evenings half-hanging out

the windows in the living room

with the panoramic village view

of bulbs cast to the die.

The very air is blue,

the trees are darkish hands held up to the moon,

the world is for you and I-

not always, but sometimes

when the wind is blowing through

and dragging along the night,

and no one has yet pulled curtains, or

started with dinner, or turned on lights

so, the colours within are the same as without,

and it seems we are half-hanging in the sky.