I hung the pressed flowers on my wall today, the ones you gave me last spring. I don’t know why I hung them because all they do is remind me of you but, they look nice where I put them and they still have a rosy smell. A way of being. As they sit there I wonder if they feel lonely like me, I wonder if they miss your touch and the way you handled them carefully, just like you did with me. They are fragile and so am I. I wish I were like a flower who deserved a soft touch from beautiful humans and baths of sugar and fallen leaves.