Songs of Butterflies

I shared your video with my friend. 
For the first time. 
I hadn’t shared it with anyone else before. 
You were singing your favorite frivolous song, 
over imaginative illustrations of butterflies. 
He smiled. 
But as he looked around the room, I saw through it. 
The smile, wide and tight as a dehydrated prune, 
slowly faded-
as he looked at me. 

He shared his opinion of the state of my house. 
In a voice pretending to care he said: 
I should do my laundry; the clothes seem homesick for the closet. 
I should wash my dishes; even starving rats wouldn’t eat off them. 
I should throw out the garbage; the smell is worse than fireworks in a prison. 
…he tried to explain… 
That's because fireworks represent freedom… 
Anyway, if you do nothing else, you should dust and just generally tidy up, 
I mean seriously, 
aren’tyouevenalittleembarrassedtoinvitemeovertoahouseinthiscondition? 
She never would have… 

The lonely tear, 
that rolled down the seam between my cheek and nose, 
stopped his pretentiousness. 

When it reached the corner of my mouth, 
and I tasted its memories-
your memories-
I asked him to leave. 

I know we are friends, but all I have left of her is this video, 
and the dust. 
You know where dust comes from don’t you? 
It is pieces of her.
I hear her voice, 
and feel her presence, 
and I-
am– 

happy.

-- Gregory P., Adult