Pressed between the pages
of her favorite book of poetry,
she keeps a rose from long ago.
Its delicate red petals,
once soft and smooth,
now crumbled in wax paper.
A souvenir of an event she can’t recall.
Was it a birthday? An anniversary?
Perhaps her senior prom?
Like the once vibrant color
of the flower she holds so dear,
her memory has faded with time.
She saves it with the withered flakes,
crushed between the pages
of her favorite book.
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the room she is in used to be mine when i was a teenager and i hung my roses high on the wall coz i guess thats what youre sposed to do.
my flatmate was asking me who they were from and why they were so special that id kept them and you know... there are 5 roses up there and i can only remember recieving one of them... how bizarre.
i never usually find roses in my books... i find all kinds of other things... random post-it notes and doodles but never flowers... maybe i need toread different books hehe.
very beautiful piece.
Nice poem, Lina, and welcome to Author's Den.
Jill
this is beautiful sentiment Lina...
John