Pressed for Remembrance

Her breath was a bouquet,

Stripped of thorns,

Cut down to size,

Convenient.

Her words a mere display

Left wilting

In a vase too small

To nourish so grand a soul.

He peeled her petals

And peddled her gifts

Looking for depths

She always hid.

Evasive, her scent was fleeting;

Hesitant to linger–

She pressed herself between pages,

Preferring to leave her love there.

A token of her memories,

Mere impressions of her heart,

Stained with ink and winter’s loss.