They appear rarely,
 but when they do
 I remember your face.

Something so beautiful
 dressed in technicolour,
 free to fly to their next destination
 to remind someone else
 of the anguish that death leaves behind.

You are gone now,
 I spend restless nights of discomfort
 trying to remember your voice,
 your smell,
 and the touch of your nimble hands
 from when you would walk
 with a younger version of myself,
 helping me upon stepping stones.

Now every time a butterfly beckons
 I recall the feeling of your hands
 when you were so weak
 yet tried to comfort me,
 the apprehension of knowing
 you aren’t coming back.

Now all I have is butterflies
 and anguish
 now you are gone.