Blue, cold, alone,
He sits,isolated.
Alone with frozen memories.

Not just frozen in time,
Cold, creul and sharp.
Chilled to the bone.

Sitting he thumbs through them,
Enjoying them,
Savouring them,
Devouring them again and again.

His heart races, pulse quickens.
He closes his eyes and recalls the faces.
All their faces.
Their slender necks.

He traces his hands over the
milky contours of their necks,
And slowly, serenely pushes his
thumbs into their throats.

Life is dragged from their bodies,
He closes his eyes and breathes in their souls.
Their deaths give him life,
Pleasure and satisfaction.

He drops them,
Stands over their lifeless bodies.
He admires his work,
His art.

It matters not he is away from them,
That he is locked up, alone.

They can't lock him out of his memories.
That's where they will be,
That's where they all will be,
Forever.

His collection.
His butterflies.