Dandelions

so, there's jane. except, her name isn't really jane. we call her jane because giving her a name, well - that would make her real. so, there's not-jane in the middle of a field, except - it's not really a field but a patch of grass next to our building. not-jane sits in the not-field and knots blades of grass together if only to watch them bend and snap. and then there's me, except it's not me if only for the reason i've outgrown myself. can you picture it? not-jane and not-me in a not-field sitting with our legs crossed, as if to ward away the darkness. not-jane with the flimsy, nimble fingers clutches a dandelion in her fist and shoves it in my face and not-me, with the grace of a new born baby deer, opens my mouth in question and suddenly not-me has a flower in her mouth. elegant, i know. not-jane starts to giggle and not-me can't help but join in, too because not-me has always like the way not-jane tucks her hair behind her ears and bats her eyelashes. not-me swallows down the feelings crawling up my throat, and barely notices the dandelions following suit. not-me goes home and writes amateur love poems on single sheets of paper; crumbles them up and swallows them, too. not-me isn't me and me, well i pick the dandelions and blow them out myself. not-jane never found the love poems; not-jane never swallowed the dandelions.