Butterflies

I'm staring at picture frames,
trying to grasp the futility
of these painted wooden cages.
My vain attempt to capture smiling faces
under panes of glass,
display them on desktops
and wide white walls.
Like butterflies pinned in shadow boxes
I take their lives,
and leave them smiling forever
under their hand-written labels-
People I love. People I remember.

My world crumbles around my head,
my hands numbly, automatically,
searching through my cell phone address book
looking for some message of salvation
in name after name,
number after number,
that scroll before my eyes
and mock my search for tranquility
through the company of a voice.
Ten digits to sort and classify-
People I love. People I remember.

And in every name and every face
I search for something to discount the fear
that's growing in the back of my mind,
the fear that I've put up glass walls
between myself and the people around me,
the fear that I've trivialized
and minimized everyone in my life.
And now they can be cataloged and filed away
like books on a shelf that grow dusty and tired
for lack of love or use.
And I strain now to find
some sort of connection between myself
and the people I love. People I remember.