We exist when the windows
and the secret documents are open.
We disperse the dust without mentioning
the dead and those they loved undyingly.
We always pack our pajamas
at the bottom of the suitcase
and our shoes are never turned face to face.
We read our letters once
to hide some secret.
With hands stretched out we reveal the times,
stay silent, silent, whisper things
that matter less than the interrupted dream
of a butterfly that lives only for a day.