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Silent Tears For You, Dallas, TX (2026)

06/13/2026

The beam comes in from the upper left —

one clean diagonal through the whole dark blue.
It finds the butterfly exactly.

Not the flowers. The butterfly.
The butterfly is on the small white flowers

and the beam found both —
the one that moves and the ones that stay,

lit together in the deep blue night.
I talk about you in the way the beam talks —

without apology, into the dark,
finding exactly what it is looking for

in the specific place it goes.
There is nothing quiet about keeping someone present.

It is an active thing.
The deliberate mention of your name

in rooms that have gone silent on the subject.
The story told again

because it is too good to keep.
The beam does not ask the dark's permission.

It enters.
It lights what it lights.

The blue holds everything else.
I talk.

The dark receives it.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

The gates are gold and open —

a figure in white already passing through.
The cardinal flies to the right of all of it,

red against the amber clouds,
going somewhere else entirely,

not through the gate, not waiting.
I write the letters I cannot send.

This is not a figure of speech.
There is a drawer.

There is a specific hour.
I write what happened in the week —

the small things, the Tuesday things,
the kind no one else would think to mention

but that she would have wanted to know.
I write because the alternative

is carrying it with no address.
At least this way it goes somewhere —

into the amber, into the gold,
into whatever the open gate opens toward

that I cannot see from here.
The cardinal does not need the gate.

It already knows the way.
I write until the page is full.

Then I close the drawer.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

The hand is still held —

the child's hand in the hand that is dissolving.
Not dissolved. Dissolving.

Still in the act of it, which is the hardest part.
The particles move away to the right

like something the wind found
and the birds above

are already in formation, already going.
I know this image from the inside.

The moment that is still mid-happening.
When the grip is still warm

and the particles are already in the air.
I have stood in that exact in-between —

not knowing whether to hold tighter
or to learn to hold differently,

to understand that dissolving
is not the same as gone,

that particles in the air
were once the shape

of something that held your hand.
The sepia field receives everything.

The birds do not look back.
The child stands.

The hand disperses into gold.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

The blue butterfly is in the upper right —

specific blue, the color of a particular kind of quiet.
The daisy is in the lower left —

white petals, yellow center, stem still green.
They exist in the same image

without being near each other.
I have relationships like this now —

things that belong to the same grief
but occupy different corners of the day

and never quite touch.
The memory that arrives in the morning.

The one that waits until evening.
I have learned to hold both —

not to require them to meet,
not to arrange the grief

into something more coherent than it is.
The blue butterfly goes where it goes.

The daisy stands where it stands.
The water beneath the daisy

is the same pale blue as the sky above the butterfly.
They share the color

without sharing the space.
I carry them both.

In their separate corners.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

He is sitting at the water's edge

and the small blue butterfly is level with his eye.
Not above. Not below.

Exactly at the height of looking straight ahead.
The tree on the left has given everything to winter.

The mist has the treeline across the water.
He is sitting with his knees drawn up —

the posture of someone who has been here a while.
I know the difference in my own body.

The kind of sitting that is about to stand
and the kind that has settled in

for whatever the water is going to do.
Grief has its own specific weight distribution.

This sitting is the second kind.
Not collapsed. Not performing.

The knees up, the eyes forward,
the butterfly at eye level,

present the way small things are present
when you are finally still enough

to notice them.
The mist holds the far shore.

The water holds the reflection.
He holds his knees.

The butterfly holds the air.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

The arms are wrapped all the way around —

chin down, face pressed into the top of the bear's head.
The golden grass goes in every direction

and the sky above is haze, not cloud.
Something in this field is very old —

the way the light falls warm and amber,
the way the body has arranged itself

to take up as little of the world as possible.
I have been in fields like this.

Not literal ones.
The ones where the grief is too large for indoors

and you take it somewhere it can sit in air.
I have learned that small is sometimes strategy.

The arms wrapped tight around what you have.
The face pressed into what is warm

and does not ask you to explain.
The bear does not require anything.

The field does not require anything.
The haze holds the whole sky

without requiring it to be clear.
I know this posture.

I have used it.
More than I have said to anyone.

More than the amber grass can count.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

The butterfly landed on his shoulder —

not his hands, not in front of him, but behind him.
He cannot see it.

That is the specific detail.
All the lavender weight of this image,

the figure with his back to us,
the butterfly on the place

he cannot check without turning —
I carry instructions like this.

Phrases I heard so many times
they became the architecture of ordinary days

and I did not know they were load-bearing.
Now I know.

Every word was a prepared place.
The strength I was told to find

was not for the days I already knew were hard.
It was for the mornings

I did not know were coming —
the ones that arrive

without announcement,
that find me sitting

with my back to what has landed.
The butterfly weighs almost nothing.

It lands anyway.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

One butterfly on the stone, one in the air —

and the water rippling outward from the stone in perfect rings.
Something landed here.

The water is still recording it.
That is what I did not expect —

that the landing would keep spreading long after,
that I would be standing at the edge of my days

watching rings move through water that looked still.
The second butterfly is already above —

upper left, smaller, moving away.
I watch the one on the stone.

The one that stayed.
There is no shame in staying at the stone.

The one that rose has already risen.
The one that stayed is doing

the other necessary thing —
being present on the surface

that received the impact,
in the exact spot where the rings

are still going outward.
I am the one on the stone.

I have not risen yet.
The tree in the mist behind me

has no opinion about this.
— Silent Tears For You

06/12/2026

One white flower on an empty chair —
laid there, not growing there.
Someone placed it.
That act happened before this image.
The grey of the chair and the grey of the room
have become the same grey.
There is no edge anymore
between the chair and the air around it.
I have a chair like this.
Not a real one.
The one that exists in the geography of the house
where someone used to be.
You stop placing things there eventually —
that is not forgetting.
It is the specific discipline
of not marking the absence every single day.
But today I placed something there.
In the quiet. Without ceremony.
The white flower on grey wood
asks for nothing in return.
The chair does not lean toward it.
The room does not change.
The flower is small.
It is exactly enough.
— Silent Tears For You

06/11/2026

The chair is outside in the rain —
that is the first thing I noticed.
Not inside. Not sheltered.
Outside, in it, taking the full weight of it.
The flower bends at the top of its stem
completely over —
head down, petals closed,
the way a person gets when the rain has been long.
And the butterfly chose the chair seat.
Small, pale, wings folded.
Not flying. Not asking the rain to stop.
Just present on the wood, in the wet.
I have sat in the rain like this.
Not literal — the other kind.
The kind you do not advertise.
The kind that soaks through anyway.
But I have also learned the chair —
that to sit down in the middle of it
and not perform the moving through
is its own form of getting through.
The rain comes down in lines.
The butterfly stays.
The flower bends without breaking.
The chair holds the weight of the sitting.
— Silent Tears For You

Silent Tears For You

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