"dandelion,
my poor withered dandelion,
you blow away too quickly, too far gone in the wind
for me to gather your tiny specks and glue you back in
i hold my frail hand out, hoping a part of you would fall into it,
but my dandelion is a stubborn little thing,
it blows past me into welcome air,
that drifts it to a place i can't see, a place i can't reach
my dandelion wrinkles in my memory, now only an unfocused haze,
as my hands start to ache,
but my dandelion won't come back to me
because like i said, my dandelion, though withered, is a stubborn little thing."
-k.v.
