I have long admitted that my dull-colored wings are nothing compared to the glimmer of butterfly wings – filled with colors. That my fascination towards light is but a weak imitation of a butterfly’s adoration towards the vibrant hues of your petals. And so I have always wished on shooting stars for the courage to confess, to say that I am in love with a flower. But perhaps now I don’t have to. I know that soon, my wings will perish along with my body and my memories will be nothing but small gusts of wind on summer. For someone like me with such a short life span, it’s a tragedy to fall in love with someone who lives for seasons. But remember me when the leaves turn brown as my wings. When the leaves quietly fall to the ground in tiptoes like how I silently visited you last night to bathe in your pale light, and kissed you good night as your petals shun me for such an untimely love affair.
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