I learned a long time ago
that melting wax over flower petals
will not save them from withering away.
Similarly
If I were to embalm a moment with you,
My memory of it will still age, crinkle, and grow cynical.
Old petals, old heat
Stale confections,
Old you,
Because you were all of these things;
were once soft, flamboyant, and robust
I hold your hand,
Sweating under the wick
And try to remember
if we were ever a flower.
