trace

there are no pictures.
evidence is stacked in my closet
of the days spent crafting
perfect words and an
imperfect hope.
there are no pictures.
a butterfly sits on my right shoulder
reminding me of what i always knew -
that you were not made to stay,
only to alight for a brief space
before returning to the sky and
your self.
there are no pictures,
but there is an impression,
and your blood on the bottom
of my shoes.