When the butterflies die.

Many a drunk poets have described love to the likes of a flower. Implying to the traits of a flower, reminiscing it’s structural fragility and it’s nature of perfuming whatever is touched by it.

Flowers are adornments to the already beautiful luscious nature, giving the much needed spark, vibrance and color. Like all flowers, it blossoms into spectacular beauty and through the course of time, it withers and meets its inevitable demise. And love is not indifferent to this.

For what it’s worth, this flower called love which blossoms in the heart of two beings that meet at the oasis of life - teaches, molds and unearths sides of us that we never knew existed.

It could show us what it feels to be truly happy. What it means to care and to be cared for.

It could show us how much courage it takes to loosen our armor, to be emotionally naked infront of someone. Hoping that they would accept us for who we are, what we are.

Like all good things in life. Love too will one day come to an end, taking with it all the fragrance and joy that it transpired to you. Nevertheless, in the garden that is life when a flower withers and fall to it’s demise, in it’s place a new flower would blossom. It is an irrevocable rule of life.

P.S. I’ve decided to write as regularly as possible regardless of how random my topics are going to be. It is me trying to improve my writing, get more creative and put my lazy mind to work. If you find any value in the above scribbles just leave a heart, it means a lot to me. I definitely appreciate it

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