I like to often think about the fact
That there is a different version
Of everyone inside each person's head.
My mother knows a different version of me
Than my sister does,
As does my best friend.
I begin to wonder what your version
Of me is like.
Does she exist?
Is she still faceless,
Being crafted by the hand of
God before your eyes?
Is she pacing the back of your mind
Like clockwork,
Waiting to be discovered;
Waiting to be loved by you, too?
I hold my version of you
In the grasp of my fingers
Like a dandelion.
Like a child sitting on the edge of
Some sidewalk in a
Forgotten park;
Somewhere safe,
Somewhere beautiful.
I hold my version of you
In my hand,
Sheltering you from wind,
Because even the gentlest
Of breezes
Could blow you
Away from me.
I sit,
Like a child,
Hugging my knees with
My free arm,
Admiring you from a distance.
I often worry that one day
Someone might pluck you
From my grasp,
That they will damage your stem,
Or blow you away entirely.
A deep breath and a wish is all it takes
For you to disappear.
If dandelions grant wishes
