I pressed the flowers
from your funeral

I pressed them
to my cheeks
where I could smell
the hyacinth
the sweet honeyed
smell of hyacinth

I pressed them
to my fallen
eyelids
my dampened lashes,
my eyes that
hold the reel
of the last 24
years.

I pressed the flowers
from your funeral

I pressed them
to my chest
where my heart
wouldn't stop beating
and where yours
wouldn't begin

and finally,
into a book.
Into a book with
maps and
artists, with
paintings and
with
so many
words for reading
where you'll
always exist.