The autumn leaves feel so aesthetic—
a gentle filter draped on time,
a sepia kiss on our photograph,
making it look happily sad.

I see it like that.

For one day, we too shall fall
like dried leaves
from the tree of life and memory.
Old, pale-gold, fragile in form—
but never in love.

Don’t they look beautifully aged,
soft as whispered stories,
aesthetic in their quiet descent—
just like we will be, one day.

And if time must wither us,
I want to wither beside you—
to curl like a golden leaf
around your presence,
falling gently into forever.

We’ll rest upon the roads
where others pass—
some may pause and notice,
others will simply move on.

But we’ll remain—
an old poem written in leaves,
pressed between seasons,
forever soft in memory.