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.