Dried flowers..

That sublime moment when you chance upon an old, long forgotten, moth-eaten, dusty book in your attic. You carefully open it. You see You recognize your writing. Probably the notebooks you maintained in your adolescence. You turn its pages. And somewhere in the middle of the notebook you discover a dried fossilized rose. The flower which you plucked from your garden. That which you wanted to gift Her. You remember your palpitations then. How you spent a sleepless night before planning each move. How that night was endless. You reach school. But find that she is not in today. You wonder why? Her father left with family to a distant place, was the reply you get from her friend. That flower -- which blossomed but still did not reach its finality. You observe that page and notice few wrinkled spots which were tears once. Strange. Both tears and petals coexisted safely in that book.