instead of weeds, call them circular stains of light.

A derivative of French or lion’s tooth, they are often collected and thrown away.

There was that time in the springtime while others soaked each other with water guns and I gathered as many dandelions as I could carry, and gave them all to her. Called them a bouquet of shine. When she kissed my cheek, her spit burned a hole into my lips and I dripped a nervous waterfall. I said to her: They close at night. Kind of like a blink that forgets what to do. 

She was used to roses or carnations and fell in love with the way I gave unwanted things like weeds and skin a chance.

Recently, she called me up. I could smell the milky latex on her breath from all those times I cracked the stems open out of anger. She told me she missed my weeds and wondered if I could love her again.

Sometimes time passes in a way that we can never go back. Then, we notice that dandelion amidst the rocks and stubbled grass. This one is white and frazzled like furry static. It reminds us that wishes never outgrow us. And love is just one step away. Or pluck of green from ground.

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