The butterflies are gone now.
They left their wings on my windowsill,
fragile, torn,
a goodbye I didn’t see coming.
The nerves too, they’ve faded.
The ones that made my heart stutter,
my hands tremble,
that sharp ache in my chest like I’d swallowed lightning.
Now, it’s just silence.
An empty room where they used to live.
I miss the way they’d show up uninvited:
On first dates, fumbling for words,
At the edge of a kiss that felt too big for the moment,
In the breath I held blowing out candles,
eyes squeezed shut with the audacity of hope.
But now, everything feels still.
Birthdays come and go,
and I don’t even light the candles.
First dates turn to quiet goodnights,
and I don’t bother remembering their faces.
The thrill is gone
not because I stopped caring,
but because I forgot how it felt to care.
Nobody warns you that the absence of nerves
is worse than the fear they bring.
Because nerves meant you were alive,
that something mattered enough to make you shake.
And when they’re gone,
you’re left with a quiet you didn’t ask for.
So now I sit in the stillness,
hoping one day the butterflies will return.
But I know they won’t.
They never do.
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Author:
kheza (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 24th, 2024 05:49
- Category: Love
- Views: 17
Offline)
Comments3
This was a beautiful poem. I felt my heart literally ache while reading it.
Thank you
My comments on the poem “When the butterflies leave” by Kheza
“They left their wings on my windowsill,
fragile, torn,
a goodbye I didn’t see coming….” Butterflies are fragile; so are their wings. With their wings gone, there is no hope for them to survive. They drop like stones. “A goodbye I did not see coming” : very poetic and touching way to describe the death of the butterflies.
Nerves are the stuff that tell us we are alive and responsive. Even if they give bad experiences, at least they tell us that there is still worthy life in us. Nerves here also refer to feelings : both the nerves and feelings are gone. Life has become an automation. We are reduced to doing things mechanically, like robots.
“hoping one day the butterflies will return….” : hope that feelings and passions will be restored.
“But I know they won’t.
They never do.” The poem ends on a pessimistic note. The realization or fear that all is lost. The dwindling life is compared with the fate of butterflies : the day comes when they lose their wings and tumble into death. Soman Ragavan. 24 November, 2024.
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Great
A beautifully written poem, i very enjoyed reading it, Thank you
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