Flowers Pressed in a Book

Flowers Pressed in a Book

Flowers pressed in a book
once so vibrant
stemmed of green
petals palest of pink
blushed to moonlit white
golden ribbon
so splendidly wound
fragrant and alive
twined through with
brilliant hope
of all that we meant to do
when time lay out ahead
on an
endless road

I could not bear to let them go
my tears ran down
as dew on the roses they threw
dropping fat plopping and wet
cascading amongst the petals
that rushed to be with you
flowers I held back crumpled in a bunch
clutched against my chest
and clenched within my fist
all of our meant to be’s
crushed in the blooms
bleeding back to the earth

Promises we had meant to keep
cast to
the bottomless depths
of a love so suddenly undone
dust back to dust
ashes to ashes
dying sighs of once-living things
all those burnt-out dreams
they scattered so prettily at my feet

Now flowers pressed quietly in a book
In between
the pages of lovely words
unspeakably rich for mere mortal voice

An amputation of destiny
cut off and cast to emptiness
caught between the shivery thin paper
bound by slips of silken thread
enshrined in leathery mortar stone
as
cover meets cover again

Like them,
I cannot break free,
relentlessly my love must return
to find you there again
when the cover pulls back

there we are stuck in time
to resume the waltz
dancing around the old familiar pain again
So much more than what they appear,
are these faded
flowers pressed in a book