The Art of Not Breathing

A butterfly flicks its wings and, somewhere,
across the world you smile.

When I flip through old files, find your handwriting
on a note, an iceberg shatters into the ocean.

Roses thrive in your new garden
while our palace crumbles into dust –

here a peacock cries before the storm,
and I remember your mouth on my ear, whispering love.

When clouds smother the moon, they laugh
like guitar strings stroking my bones,

engraving your name.