The etiolated petals,

(as fragile as a butterfly’s wings),

a testament to our innocent love

have stained the yellowing pages

of your epistle of love

folded neatly within the leaves of a beloved book

lying next to my bed since you gave it to me

as I run my fingers over the now barely visible lines

my lips move silently to the words imprinted on my soul

but no longer scarring my heart with rapier sharpness

what remains is just a twinge of regret for what could have been

didn’t someone call Time, the healer!

the curve of my smile gets deeper

enfolding within it

our undying devotion to each other

life can be beautiful and brutal by turns

these petals and yellowing pages are the shrine

I turn to during transient tumultuous times.

52 thoughts on “Shrine

  1. A wonderful poem! I’m filled with the shadow remembrances of a long ago love – one that was sweet for its innocence and as transient as youth. Love the image of the letter being a touchstone to a past time that sustains over the years!! Brava!

    Liked by 1 person

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