Propped elbows on the rug,
     bare feet swinging at the air,
           and a dandelion crown
                 rests on my tangled mess of hair

                 I shake the cool tin box,
           and listen to its clatter
      before I  spill its contents
and arrange them in a pattern

(lines or swirls or rectangles, it really doesn’t matter)


All of them are special,
      their weight magic in my fist,
            perfect lovely liquid drops-
                   I am amazed that they exist.

                   One of them, however,
            stands out from all the rest-
       'pure black,' I whisper reverently-
It is obviously the best.

So I took that marble,
     and put it in my pocket
          next to my lucky button
            and my secret golden locket.


            And this is how it feels
       driving home so late at night,
    when the road’s dark and empty
and there is not a hint of light-

Like I’ve got a secret
     that no one can understand,
        solemn, silent, and serene,
             a little lonely in my hand.