Trailing oneself...

They stroll about
familiar paths in the colourful garden
like lovers hand in hand,
oblivious of suspicious onlookers;
and then
they walk back stripped off their plain-ness,
in the direction of familiar trails of the wayward wind,
like feather-winged butterflies
shedding off
parts of the past
lined in shells of black skin
on
slow-moving caterpillars
racing against
their own future manifestations!

PS:
What am I to u? tell me darling true,
to me you are the sea, vast as you can be, deep the shade of blueeeeee!