The Parting of the Monarchy

They say they see you in my laugh In my pigeon-toed walk and also in the way I speak. They catch glimpses of you in my drawings In the swirls of ink and color as if you yourself Guided my hand. I can smell your smell under my bed Hidden Tucked away in a faded box. I see you look back at me in the mirror I see your eyes fluttering Your face as if I had always all along been you. I remember How light and beautiful you were, like a butterfly. You danced always just within reach Sometimes landing gracefully my knee. Inandoutinandoutinandoutinandoutinandout. Where did you go all those times? Where do all the butterflies go when they die? I know where Where the fields are green emeralds burning in the sun, they take a breeze and fly off into white boxes under my bed. They turn into yellowed letters and pictures and un-kept promises. Isn’t that where butterflies go to die?