I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you,
and my past theft seemed selfish, childish, and frankly, insane.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out anything for you
and my wide loving eyes could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were coated in haze.
I searched for flowers but then found winter instead.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
Shrinking to the ground, all I saw were gray clouds:
the very clouds I used to not notice,
the same grayness someone taught me to love.

What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I still run and I thieve, but not for a love of my own.
I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for the love of others,/for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love