Yellow Butterfly/A true story

That love of mine

he loved the butterflies

floating off to the other side

that love of mine

was trying so hard

to get his wings

and in the months later

I kept asking why
why my love wouldn’t tell me bye

was there nothing for me
and I kept looking for my butterflies

that love of mine

Walking along the side

and there was this yellow butterfly

working its way across the concrete

crippling along it’s way

I let him in my hand
and cried about what to do

where to place him for his quiet struggle

and like a miracle he took off

in some beautiful flight

oh… I remembered

and laughed for the free light

of those yellow wings

that love of mine

he loved butterflies

and talked about the next turn

the next life

the next flight

and so my love flew

but not before being in my hand
and thanking me

for the lift

on the next flight…




when it hits me
the feeling or memory

like I could just call

or send you a line

write all incognito

and pretend that your mine


when I have a thought

or an idea

or if I’m just confused and mad at the world

and want my escape


When things are going bad
or going good

changes are changes
as changes should


Are some times

When I just miss you

I miss the way it was
and the way it wasn’t

The way we were

and the way we pretended
with no pretenses

I miss your voice
and your face

I miss all I didn’t want to know

that made us us in our space

and sometimes baby

when I’m fully alive the way you showed me

I cry real tears in some real alive anger

I’m so mad at you for leaving

didn’t you think I would miss you

was there nothing you could have told me

on your way out to the stars

but sometimes


across all that space and time

there is never going to be a place to far

and sometimes

I still hear
all that I miss
and feel
our breath like a kiss

and I’m doing my best
to keep my alive alive


remembering some time


November 2012

Sometimes we deal in emotions
Trying to place blame
Trying to figure out our ways
And just trying to count instances
Explaining how we spend our days
I’ve been through all that
And it really doesn’t matter
That battles over isn’t it
And still the missing sometimes shatters
Still waters gather and they just make their own their own weather
Close my eyes and I’m in a night
Sometime in a November
Before election days
And I miss you
Things could have been different
As always things could be
Grown child never as grown is not really seen
We are always like a child
In some kind of way
And those moments hit us in the absence
And I miss you
I know there are no questions
Not where you are now
And everything is understood
I don’t un bury those things that wonder
And I don’t dig up old bones
To pick with you
Guess I’ll always be the good girl
And the first born
And always just like you
Sometimes in some way
But on some nights
When I close my eyes
I’m at a house in the dead of night
And it’s November
Before Election Day
And I hear your rants
And so glad you can’t see the future
Because where you are there aren’t questions unanswered
And I know you know
The question of love and missing
Is complete
As love and missing should be
Some things could have been different
And sorry is sorry they weren’t
Lessons in life usually are later learned
And sad little embers
Come back and burn
Your laughter and tears
Your unwavering stances
And misunderstandings
Doesn’t matter
On that still night in November

” I think we are always five years old, in the presence or absence of our parents”- Sherman Alexie