"Pressed Roses"

"While some flowers lie pressed in a classic, some are meant to just wither away into mortality."

Darlin, our love isn't the type,

You'll find scribbled along with a wilted rose,

On a yellowed page of an ancient novel,

Gathering dust in a vintage bookstore,

The one where we had our first date,

Nor would it be in a lovesong,

Or engraved in the gazillion constellations, 

Or the one which the waves usher as they ebb on the seashore,

You see, our love is the one which divulges,

In the sighs of people in between two words,

It dwells in that tiny lil gap between two inhalations,

It's not great, not worth remembering,

But it's there, just there, it's ours,

Quiet, patient, whispering our love story,

To the atoms in the air, and among thousands of "I love you's" 

it just wishes, 

One would reach me and you. :)