bullet with butterfly wings

the years pass

and i dissolve

softly like dust leaving a windowsill

some days i am as meaningless as a fly

some days as precious as a bee

guarding its last drop of honey

pieces of us disappear

our joys, our old desires

the voices that once lived inside our chests

we call it life

but it feels more like forgetting

everything grows foreign

love, friendship, even our own names

we touch the world

and our hands go straight through it

and we do nothing

we watch ourselves fade

as if it were a stranger’s tragedy

maybe the end is simply this:

the quiet moment when the last human inside us

whispers goodbye

and we are too far gone

to hear it