Dead Butterflies

I sometimes think about the fragility of glass–of broken shards tearing against soft skin. When in truth, it is the transparency that kills you. The pain of seeing through to something you can never quite touch.

For years over years I've kept you in secret, behind a glass of screen. I've watched helplessly as day after day, your new girlfriend becomes your wife and then later, the mother of your children. Then realizing the irony in thinking you were the one under glass when in fact it has been me – a pinned butterly– static and unmoving, watching while your other life unfolds.