We shall be forgotten
but our love will remain
smudged on the wings of butterflies,
on the black blobs
on the red elytra of ladybugs.
in the forces that harmonize
fruits centripetally inward,
and blooms centrifugally
towards the out.
Real love is always remembered.
Universe cannot do away with heart and virtues
they
mold to everlasting mutation of beauty.
We are always remembered,
in our songs,
in the hummingbirds
that satiate from our amreeta,
in the paintbrushes that is dazzled
in the dashing colours of hummingbirds,
their suckling and infusing beaks and zests,
in the words that versify
butterflies' rhyming wings.
Wings, made of
all the rose petals I have shed for you,
in the valentine days within every day,
and the white chocolate box
I received in your smiles,
full of fillings of wonders,
in the pain we suffered
for survival of the species of our love,
our endearment,
from the thorns that gashed our flesh
and gushed our lawn in red blooms,
in the storms
that flooded the rivers of our tears,
in the boats that were
the cradle of our survival
as us,
as the identical oars of two wings,
echoing each other
to grow
into
a bird.
