She presses flowers
into a leather book:

lavender and lily,
a rose from an ex lover,

a carnation she tore from the ground
roots and all.

Delicate in their death,
she harvests them –

the gentle and the vivid –
to watch them wilt.

The fun is in the dying
as they shrink into

themselves and hide
their colours. She'll keep

them forever, a memoir
written with their carcasses.