My younger self bore the blossom of a love left unrequited,

The first unripe fruit in a period of unsuccessful growth.

I pretend not to see the passing of seasons,

To avoid thinking of nature's repetition;

Longing for the rejuvenation of spring,

And brooding in the changing of autumn.

I haven't trusted myself to break free from the cocoon I've woven myself into,

But time doesn't need permission to act as it does.

Every time I crack my shell,

I leave myself vulnerable to being used by others,

And succumb to the realization of how fleeting everything is.

In the midst of my first love,

You bound a book for me and wrote three words

With pigment from a butterfly's wings.

As I grow older,

The meaning behind them fades into a blur.

I wonder whose words they were.