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She was a dandelion, hopelessly in love with the wind.
Every time he touched her, he carried pieces of her away. She never called it destruction; she called it love. She watched herself scatter into places she had never chosen, believing that if losing herself meant being closer to him, then perhaps it was worth it.
The beautiful tragedy of a dandelion is that no matter how many times the wind tears it apart, life asks it to bloom again. And so she did. Again and again. Not because she had forgotten the pain, but because somewhere inside her lived the impossible hope that the same wind that broke her would one day learn how to hold her gently.
But the wind was never meant to stay. It only knew how to pass through, never how to remain.
And perhaps that is the saddest kind of love to keep blooming, knowing the only person you're blooming for is the very one who will scatter you all over again. 🍃