Miss Butterfly is Still Waiting by Abigail F. Taylor

for her man; lovesick or perhaps curious of her fate. Days fade into weeks. months. years. Life keeps moving and sometimes the taste is sweet. Yet time hangs on the tongue like a sour flavour...mildewed water. Cherry blossoms melt and grow melt and grow and -- The tree's spindle fingers etch secrets onto Miss Butterfly's window words under words, and the bed sheets are drawn up to her old, small chin as she listens. While she waits.

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