My arms are weighted with her space,
a heaviness that won't compare--
her toes, her smile, her tiny face,
and the imagined white-blonde hair;
forgive this mother's grief for stolen dreams
and let alone these tears that stream.
Forgive this mother's grief,
forgive this mother's grief,
remember things aren't always what they seem.
I know it's wrong to yearn for them,
but those moments when you despair
would give to me what was unsent--
a life of burdens I wish I could wear.
Forgive this jealous heart that wants to share
the grumpy shouts, the unmade beds you bear.
Forgive this jealous heart,
forgive this jealous heart,
remember it's 'bout her, my sweet butterfly of air.
This heart still aches for my baby's weight,
and the screaming absence of her cry
opens anew an unhealed space
where all that lives is the question-- "why?"
Let this heart heal as we grow old
and if an outburst leaves you cold,
let this heart heal.
Let this heart heal,
butterfly babies are heavy to hold.