Love left to wind.

Her love was like a dandelion, she would laugh at that. I don’t mean the flower or the colour yellow, but the aged white fluffy kind. The kind that looks soft and inviting, like down, fixed on a stem. You reach for it and hold it in your hand, then the wind picks up and it disappears in pieces, reaching for the sky. Funny thing about dandelions, even when they leave, its beautiful.

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