Sticky Notes

You'd collect memories: fragile, fragrant ones
Ones that'd threaten to slip out, forgotten,
to mix in with the autumnal hues of nostalgia.
Ones that'd barely be tangible
Because of their normalcy, their perfect compactness
In the circularity of our routine.
You'd press them alongside the flowers I'd collect-
Press them among words of love,
Words we've grown to love.
We'd make our own compact bundles
Of little slips of happiness,
And tuck them foolishly between pages
Crumbling with overshared love.
Perhaps we've always believed in time travel.
We've tried to preserve its secrets meticulously 
Within the warmth of a well-worn book.
I hope someday, a little yellow splayed across the blue
Of an almost forgotten book
Reminds you of the snippets of conversations saved faithfully,
Of books and tea and harmonicas,
Of evenings dulling into darkness,
Of weed and clover, oranges and sardines,
And of love sought, and shared, unconditionally. 
For now, there will be flowers, always
And a series of unexplored memories
Waiting to be tucked in and treasured fondly.