The heart is dessicated, pressed flat between the pages of a textbook. It's the memory of a heart, preserved for posterity at the height of its vibrant colors. I felt the color begin to fade, the stems began to droop and for the sake of who'll come next I plucked it carefully and folded it between those blind pages.
Months pass in careful silence; I return to the heart, finger it's whisper thinness. Occasionally, I bring it to my mouth, warm it with blushing breath. It is a letter, folded and forgotten from last year's lover.
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