The Paper Butterfly Principle

 How silly we must be  pretending not to see  those who we don't want to meet When there are those who cannot see at all  How cruel we must be  trying not to hear the truths that we fear. When there are those who cannot hear at all.  How strange we must be  unable to speak whenever we feel meek.  When there are those who cannot speak at all

You check the locks on your door. I do the same. You never come to borrow sugar— and I don’t think I’ll bother to offer you any. We watch the same sunrise, and maybe the same sunset, unless we don’t. Because I never see you on the verandah. But I do, in my mind’s eye. I’ve heard the shouts, the screaming. I wished I could help. I wish I could make it my business. The walls are thin here. I send you paper planes sometimes. Do you find them? They ask if you are alright. I hope you’ll send one back soon.

 He will not let you out of your box, hush now. There are still others after you,  and many who arrived before.  His hands are dead  and so are his gloves,  and so are you,  so really, there is nothing amiss here. The living?  Oh no.  They cannot touch you.  They do not have the right gloves yet. It is not latex or nitrile, it is rot  and suffering,  and pain.  Pain is of small kinds. And big kinds. Some have small gloves for small hands. They did not get to see the world. Some have big gloves for big hands. They wish they did not see the world.

  Maybe God is a coroner,  a civil servant, souls are but paperwork,  identities are stored in refrigeration vaults.  God is not a judge.  He is not a father.  He is not even listening.  He is the one keeping the temperature low,  the doors shut, until the rest of us catch up.  We are not done grieving,  I do not want a miracle, I want you to wait for me after I lose you. I would wait for you, too. If I could.

Time is a child. The day starts young Then dies with you slowly, with each blink. Wakes up again the next day— Rosy-cheeked, Golden-eyed. The tender fingers of dawn toy with the clouds, break them, reach out, grow stronger, and strangle the sun at the end of the set twenty-four hours of time. (A day.) Sunsets are deaths (graceful ones). Sunrise is a birth (quieter than they should be. Possibly of the unwanted child).