i will write poetry with you and kiss you and watch ****** movies with you and make you love yourself like i love you

I'm sure I saw your fingerprints
a subtle mark upon my skin
forgetting your touch now
I wonder how long it's been

A voice once called me
from within a busy crowd
I turn knowing you're not there
the sound disappeared into
the clouds

I sometimes inhale the scent of you
but you're nowhere to be seen
although when I clearly see you
I forget it's only my dreams

a soft sensation on my neck
your warm lips and scented breath
those full lips once told me you loved me
and how much I meant

the curls behind my ear gently move
I know it's your whisper, from the past
the words that flowed from your mouth
telling me that this kiss would be our last

Have  I ever told you- I still have your boutonniere?
Perched proudly upon my poetry books~
All of the memories of "Us" may have been stored-
hidden-
in a box solely for those memories
but that flower stands proudly,
untouched from the date- May 3rd

Fragile as it may be ( now dehydrated )
It remains a symbol of our love -
Filled with beauty, and fantasy-
but now dried out-
yet I still have it

Should I throw it away?
Forget and abandon it-
Or keep it as a memory?
and risk it growing on me
The longer it stays
the more questions arise...

Do you still have yours- Or is it gone forever?
*Do withered flowers lose their beauty?