There's a half a butterfly missing from around your neck and when I reach to my own its to caress the other half hanging on a chain around mine; the noose to loose to choke off my breath and too tight to let you live. The ending we were(more) supposed to share. And I'm back, for a moment, to when I barely made it outside your door before heaving a litany of sobs the last time I saw you, lying there on that hospital bed. And they say you died with a smile on your face, staring at half a butterfly dangling from a chain. A chain hooked on the window latch to let the wooden creature's wings glint in the sunlight, to let it fly free. Not around your neck then, and not around it now.
But that half a butterfly was a promise, a piece of me to bring with you so you would never be alone and it hangs now on the wall on my parents' bedroom instead of over your chest deep underground where a piece of me will always rest. It hangs where she put it, because it reminds her of you and she couldn't bear to let it go with you. So I asked my self a thousand times: if it's helping, does it really matter? If she sleeps better at night with it there than I do with it gone from you, does her insignificant theft matter? But in the end I just want you back. And a small piece of wood, a small piece of me, a token of comfort or misery can never give me that.(less)