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The butterflies started dying in September.
We collected the bright yellow ones---
pressed them in books.
You left our continent in December,
a day before the first snowfall.
I kept our butterflies safe.
Now you send me black and white photo postcards.
Everyday I find one in my mailbox:
full of sharp contrasts and always in focus.
I've stuck your postcards
all over the walls in my house.
You are cryptic in your messages.
But the shadows in the postcards
betray your secrets.
Soon there won't be any space for them.
It is nearly spring. My letters to you are getting longer.
Still, every postcard you send is black and white.
And it's always a photograph.
Nights I open the books
where the yellowest butterflies lie
unmarred, immaculate.
I stare at them for hours.
But when I close my eyes
I see only black and white.
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