i can still feel it — the ghostly echo of storm clouds it in my throat, now dry and emptied of the softest sighs. they all had fallen on my flower-bed skin, pristine as the petals that once were. or so i pretend. i can still feel it in my throat: the storm, looming. the calm drowning itself, and its haunting, beckoning call to which my feet slowly walk.

some days, it's just you and the uncharted depths of your own skin.

some days, you can bother with poems — some days, you can only drown.

every passing day, a person mumbles wishes on a dandelion,
breathing away the small petals of what was the dandelion is made of.
they would say their deepest and darkest desires,
and even the lightest and loveliest of them all.
they would secure it tight on their lips,
begging the flower not to tell a soul,
and yet selfishly, demand for it to grant it all.
they didn't even wonder about the poor dandelion,
that has been hearing their wishes
with no one to hear hers in return.
the lone dandelion just keeps on flying with the wind,
wishing that someday, someone would try to hear,
those wishes that she kept within.