letters (a Butterfly lands on your hand)

The presence of happiness
is not an absence of pain…

I finger-paint perfection
over the fog of my breath
on the cold glass. Meaningless,
it dries out quickly, erased
by the fleeting touch
of the sunrise.
My mind draws a few broken lines,
in black, a staircase
to the thirteen floor.
I step over the ledge
on to the lower deck. I am wrapped
by motion sickness,
vomit over the salt
of red water, colored
by the sunset. While you,
from the top of your captain’s deck,
glimpse with pity at my body,
contorted, swept unconscious
by the last wave of nausea…
The shell drowns,
descends to the ocean floor.
A butterfly flies and lands
on your hand.

The presence of pain
is not an absence of happiness.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya