Flowers

I pressed flowers
Between the pages of a poetry book
Filled with lust and longing.

The pollen
Dyed the pages
And broken petals clung to the words like tissue paper and white glue
Until they blotted out the words.

I never finished the book.
I kept it
Whimsical symbol of summer dreams
Along with the flowers that were pressed
And tied with a piece of red thread
That we found on the way
To somewhere we never reached.