They had me at goodbye

as they always seemed to die

slow like a rose

one day jubilant and alive

then like sleep goes the week

and it’s noticed that the rose

has died. But see, I kept them there

all wilted and decayed

brown and crumpled I’d debate

taking them to the trash

throwing them away, though

a rose in its youth is beautiful

so too is a rose left to dry.

So I pressed them between pages

and drew a pretty picture

poured ink from my memory

so that even in death

they’d remain

alive.