Scrawlers

I picked a pretty flower and I pressed it in a book.
I kept it there for forty years before I took a look.
The petals creased and faded and the stem is barely there.
It's gone far past the point of any normal wear and tear.
I look at it and think of it and then I think of you.
I picked this pretty flower as you bent to tie your shoe.
You said to keep it so I did and now it is right here.
But what I really wish is that you were standing near.