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there are some pretty little butterflies hovering near the tree. just over there.
can you see? no, you can not see
their beauty : their w i n g s are an
familiar sea green to me.
i love the colour green because it is you.
you don't get much of butterflies and green in winter; i wonder why
they're here

a cautious few dips
tiny toes recoiling on instinct from freezing water
the baby moves on
w i t h i t ' s m o t h e r but my legs sink deeper and I almost see your weak, cancer-stricken smile lurking in the
water. you died here two thousand and nine seconds ago
and i feel, as my bitterly cold feet trace morbid shapes in the water,
but w h y .

i wonder
why the day after it actually happened.
the winter is now s u m m e r , all used airport tickets and sun tan lotion and discarded t-shirts
and the world carries on
and the b u t t e r f l i e s weren't pushing my soul to yours.
they will complete soon , i can tell.
you said no to the noose, afraid that i could easily follow you, but silly Laura ...
you thought your suicide would be f o o l p r o o f .

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