Pieces of me float away leaving emptinesses

everywhere, gaps where butterflies

have flown the page. Their outlines remain  

but I’m preoccupied with the sheer not-thereness

of these spaces, their “oh shit, what-nowness?”

Perhaps, in time, wild pansies will seed, grow through

ragged gaps, flaunt colours like mad-windy wings,

deny the edgy, brutal emptinesses.

Maybe the missing butterflies will find themselves

drawn to crazy colours and return, settle briefly

before remembering that journeys  

mark each fragile page with a million leavings.