Look at you standing by the old attic window.
Particles of dust are shimmering in the sun.
I move my body, and they twirl like spring snow.
You are an old photograph painted by hand.
Would you believe me if I said I am fine.
How many years have we stared at this picture frame.
And taken the should-haves and nailed them to the wood.
You are a butterfly that I will set free.