They found butterflies in her stomach,
Ripped of their wings..
Left to dream of flight.
But knowing that without his name,
They'd never flutter again.

They found her heart in pieces,
Trying so hard to beat.
But without a pulse,
What good would a thump do?

They saw her lips curled to a tremble,
And her fingers clenched to his note.

They tried everything they could
To pry her from her pillow.
But it just wouldn't work,
No, her grip was too strong..
Who knew that tears were used as glue?

After just one year,
Her heart was broken,
And her butterflies had passed.

'She must have caught a fever,'
The doctors whispered..
'A fever so fatal,
That not even his pitty 'I love you's',
Would bring her back.'

And now we can only hope,
That she's in a better place.

A place where a fever of his name isn't repeated throughout her mind.
A fantasy where tears aren't used as glue,
And a world where butterflies aren't ripped of their wings..
When the truth comes out,
And his eyes aren't that blue anymore.

 
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