She is like a rose. She is so vivid and her pigment is so fresh, making her prominent among the whole bouquet. You pick her, but of course, why ever would you make another choice? She is full of thorns, but you don’t mind, you adore the feeling derived when your fingers are cut, because of her. Drops of blood, dripping down, no regrets. You hold her out before your eyes and oh, what a sight. You spin her around, and you just can’t get enough of all her angles, and every new spin introduces you to a newer angle which enthralls you even more. You rest her on your cheeks, she feels so cool on your skin, and ever so soft. You’re torn between looking at her and feeling her touch, and river of emotions. She has got a hold of the remote control, oh yes, that rose, and you are so devoted you pay everything you have to have her. Time is ticking, and she begins to wilt. Dried up with colour darkening, not as appealing, but you are still hypnotized, she would never let go of the remote control. I was the dandellion you blew away, when you still had naïve dreams, and somehow I’m also the napkin she hurled, that you discarded when reddened with your cheery blood. Those days, I suppose are long forgotten.