Dandelion

She was the girl, that laughed too loud, when everybody cried; her emerald eyes twinkling with refusal. And he was just a boy next door, that played piano, instead of life. They both were not really pretty, nor talented, but there was something about her name and his delicate feet, that tied their beating bosoms together.

His favorite song was called Dandelion, like the girl, that slept in his heart, tickling frail walls with long eyelashes, so he trilled it day and night; long spectacular fingers wearing through black and white piano robe. She, on the other hand, rapped her rounded knees against pipes and walls, as his suffocating melodies, and nonsensical bouquets of flowers trapped her in a glass jar, under the label of pale weed.

She was too deaf, to hear his soul through raw sounds, he was too blind, to see past her awkward beauty, and so they lived, a boy and a girl, behind transparent promises.

Years passed, her hair got shorter, vulgar laughter louder, eyes duller, as lustrous world was too expensive, greedy and sateless to carry in golden locks, and there was nothing he could do about it. Hence, he just sat and stared at the frail threads of spirit, slowly slipping through her cracked sanity.

She was still too deaf and he?.. He refused to open dead orbs, terrified of forgetting about Dandelion and letting the wind tear her to shreds. She was not a flame anymore, just a candle soon to be blown out.

On warm spring nights he tried to keep her on this land, his words lacing around her freckled ankles, but she just purged guffaws in his face, because she wasn't the one for romances. She did not need his weep - filled heart and heavy-footed breaths, nor did she ask for the stars, moon, sun and silly bouquets of dandelions left on the dirty doormat. A pack of cheep cigarettes and a bottle of good rum was enough for her to spread white legs, however the pianist was too childish, too pure and naïve for this. He was too good, too dangerously and enviously good.

And perhaps his kindness drove him that night to the wild sea, or maybe his stupidity, as he swore to bring gorgeous necklace made out of whispering seashells and shiny pearls to the lonely girl. Just a silly pledge that helped him outrun his own shadow, even when wet sand clang onto delicate feet. He swam in furious ocean, fierce waves lulling his clothed form to sleep, as sharp rocks drank blood and merciless wind suffocated unappreciated bosom.

Eventually stormy night came to an end, nearby house got awfully quiet, dead and stayed like this for awhile. Nobody played piano, nobody rapped against walls, nobody talked behind closed doors or left bouquets on dirty doormats. Nobody knew why, nobody cared, only a lonely girl, that found size five shoes brimming with sand on the beach. Only her too loud laughter and glossy eyes, that twinkled with refusal, knew the price of silence.