To struggle out of her definition’s confines,
she followed dutifully his song out of his hell,
yet missed her old life unfolding as well.
Does the butterfly regret the change?
Look back to the chrysalis with nostalgia,
to the moments before the casing’s breach?
Discomfort is neither transition’s beginning nor end,
for movement falters only in an imagined death;
whether real, or metaphorical, is inconsequential
for our misunderstandings of this moment:
another story to wrap ourselves between,
another tale needed to explain a heart.
He stands before her singing his songs.
She wonders where she has become.
(August 5, 2014)
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