The Archive

When you had to leave,
the guiltiest part of me wishes I could fossilize your dear plant.
That I could encase it in amber resin.
Or gently flatten it into some academic's leather-bound tome underneath the warmth of a desk lamp—
only to file it away into one of a thousand metal drawers.

Resin stains the fingertips like rust.
That damn dirty, charcoal-gum amber.
Even then, a root might still crack through the drawer.

I could never do it.
But I love you.