What does the butterfly think about?

It searched in the eyes of others,
in their hands, in their words,
in promises that vanished with the wind.

It thought that if it found the right piece,
everything would finally fall into place.
But one day it stopped running.
It stopped chasing what was fleeing.

And there, in its own calm,
it realised that there had never been a void.

The love it sought was not outside,
it was not a game, nor was it a conquest.
It was her.
It had always been her.