The Destruction Of Dandelions.
I turn over to my other side, extend my arm and search for him with my fingers. The discovery that the bed is empty beside me causes a completely unnecessary, almost paroxysmal response, I go from deep slumber to sitting upright in a matter of seconds. I get out of bed, pick up my long, black T-shirt off the floor and pull it on over my throbbing head. I am so thirsty. I look around the room and find my bottle on his side of the bed, as I walk to it I notice, on the dressing table, the dandelion I brought home last evening has died. Only a fine stooping stalk droops in the tiny makeshift vase, whatever remains of the floret lays disintegrated under it, like little specks of ash, you cannot even tell they came from something that once had life. I love dandelions, but this is what they do. They fall apart, with such remarkable ease, their seemingly perfect structure is always only a swift breeze away from total decimation, yet I am always surprised when it happens. A dandelion comes undone before my eyes every single day, yet each destruction seems so portentous, as if it will never happen again.