“BUTTERSKIES” by Martin Leroux

There are songs that simply play, and there are songs that linger—drifting like smoke through memory. Butterskies, the latest single from Tokyo-based singer-songwriter Martin Leroux, belongs to the latter. Released on May 16, it is a graceful meditation on goodbyes, casting parting not as a rupture but as a quiet unfolding—an echo of tenderness that promises renewal. Originally written for the stage, the song found a second life in Leroux’s own story, becoming a vessel for reflection, for the ache and clarity of real-life heartbreak. It now serves as the second chapter in his upcoming autobiographical album, one shaped by the complexities of growing up between cultures and the kaleidoscope of emotions that such a life reveals.

Musically, Butterskies is feather-light yet emotionally resonant. Classical guitars flutter softly, like wind across tall grass, while strings—courtesy of Swedish arranger Per Löfdahl—rise in luminous swells and sighing descents. It’s a soundscape filled with air and warmth, grounded in the folk traditions of artists like James Taylor and Joni Mitchell, yet unmistakably Leroux’s own. His voice moves gently through the song, never forcing its emotion, never pleading. Instead, he offers a teary-eyed smile, a whispered thank-you to moments past, and an open hand to what’s ahead. There is no bitterness here—only the kind of grace that comes when one has loved deeply and learned to let go.

What makes Butterskies so affecting is its subtlety. It doesn’t shout its sorrow, nor does it rush its healing. It breathes. It waits. It wraps its melancholy in golden light. In doing so, it becomes a song not only of parting but of promise—a soft place to land in the long, slow unraveling of change. As a contrast to Leroux’s debut single Red Light, which shimmered with early-2000s pop-rock defiance, Butterskies is quiet, personal, and cinematic. Yet both songs carry the same belief: that in each ending lives a hidden beginning, waiting to unfold. With Butterskies, Martin Leroux offers more than music. He offers a moment of pause—a hush before the next breath, the sky just before nightfall. It is farewell with wings, and perhaps, a new kind of dawn.