You are a poem,
That the universe have written
Your smiles already are the similes
That I wish to compose.
Your wrinkles are the poems of love,
With cheesy metaphors
The love that gives butterflies;
The ones that cycle around one's stomach,
And eventually get stale.
It also is the poem of uncertainty,
Of how love grows gradually to a stage,
When you no more need to tell your partner that you love him,
To a point that one day,
When he no more warms your morning with his smiles,
When his tea cup no more needs to be filled,
When your laundry basket no more holds his clothes,
When his side of the bed remains cold,
And his snores are no more the lullabies
That you sleep to,
You regret that you shouldn't have put full stop
To romance and romantic stares.
You realize that all the beautiful moments,
Rather deserve colons and commas.
Dear grandma, your eyes are paranoma of love
They portray every chapter of it
From how it begins,
To how it loses to destiny.
The warm smile that you, to this day wear,
Is the aftermath of love I swear,
It tells me that you don't love bodies,
You love souls.
You live to the memories of the soul,
Even after the body that holds the soul, forever goes.
You are the story,
That happens after the end of fantasies,
After the so called happily ever after.
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