To My White Butterfly
Tonight, I realized something.
You were not talking much.
You were just breathing.
And somehow, that was enough.
I could hear it over the phone, soft, unguarded, human. No performance. No effort. Just breath. Just existence. And in that quiet rhythm, I felt something deeper than conversation. I felt your silence.
Most people are loud even when they are quiet. Their presence demands something, validation, response, energy. But yours does not. Your silence is not empty. It is full. It carries warmth. It carries trust. It carries the kind of stillness that makes the world slow down for a second.
There is something sacred about hearing someone breathe.
It is the most honest sound a person can make. It means they are alive. It means they are here. It means they are vulnerable without trying to be.
And tonight, through a fragile phone line, I felt closer to you than distance should allow.
I think peace is misunderstood.
People search for it in mountains, in success, in applause, in becoming something bigger than themselves. But peace might simply be this, lying next to someone and hearing them breathe.
Just existence, side by side.
I know something now, I will be at peace with the universe the day I fall asleep next to you. Not because the world will change. Not because life will suddenly become easier. But because in that moment, nothing will need to be explained.
No philosophy.
No ambition.
No red butterflies trying to prove they can fly.
Just stillness.
And maybe that is what love really is, not fireworks, not possession, not drama.
Just breath.
Just silence.
Just knowing that the universe can finally rest.