flower-press

I have seen you collect
those fragile weed-blossoms,
and, as you press them between
the leaves of a yellowing
book, I have laughed,
teasing you and your
never-ending sense of
romance,
that with a stroke of a finger on the page
weeds the cliché from that
pressed flower.

you respond, all seriousness,
that some day,
in a city or a little town,
far far from here and now
(and me, I add silently)
you will open your yellower book
and there will you find,
flattened by the embrace of
memory,
the then, the there, and
me.

There should be a word
for this
anticipatory nostalgia,
this dead flower that already
lives
a few steps ahead of us:
There should be
some other word than
romance.