A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Those butterflies are dead
she said, and I agreed - 
neither one of us was wrong,
but referencing different things.
I remember now the metaphorical
flutter in my stomach, the whole
car ride home, hoping against hope
that we were on the same page
(spoiler alert: we were not).
I remember the longed-for-but-unexpected
kiss that felt exactly how I’d imagined
they were meant to, reinforcing
my belief in this being so much more
than it was. I remember the season
when every touch sprayed more sparks
than an arc welder melting our souls together.
I could not foresee a thread to a future
in which these butterflies could die,
their wings could cease to beat
in time to the symphony of a desire 
that must surely flame for eternity.
And although I had been aware
the beat and hum had quietened,
I had somehow not realised they’d been silenced
and now I’m searching haphazardly through
the rubble of memories, seeking answers
amidst the debris. Time since death is such 
an inexact science, and I have not the skill
to pinpoint the exact moment in which they expired.
I realise this is likely because they were not
assassinated in one fell swoop. That type
of genocide would have caused more obvious a mess,
a silence more stark and less able to be ignored.
Instead they dropped one at a time, silent canaries
in the coal mine. 
Ticking time bomb.
The butterflies are dead, I agreed,
but she meant those fluttering in the Amazon
rain forest of all my what-ifs, 
that yes, of course we know
that even the smallest change to choices, 
to words
to actions and inactions (though she crinkled
her nose in distaste for that word: too full
of blame, too much like “should”) 
might have altered outcomes, but it is pointless
now to seek the dried carcass of a long-dead insect
I’ve never even seen.