I wrote you a poem on the wings of a butterfly,
free-form and flowing like the rivers of your mind.
Every flap rains verses perfectly balanced out in time.
I wrote you a poem on the edge of an eagle's quill
with obsidian as ink after I begged the Muses for their skill,
then packaged it in ancient parchment and vestiges of twill.
I wrote you a poem beyond the confines of today,
where tomorrow hasn't happened, nor will yesterday.
Lain among the cosmos with stars out on display.
So love, if you get lonely, calmly look towards the sky.
It's the rustling of the breeze and sunlight's sparkle in your eye.