dandelion

I have a new friend
whose name softly lingers in the room when pronounced.
She is a kind of person who keeps teardrops in her empty teapot.

I visited her in her apartment the other day
She lives among beautiful things,
things that watched us eat and listened to us talk.

As I left she lent me her precious book,
a book with creased pages, sticky notes, and some water stains
a book that had breathed her smiles and sighs (and perhaps sobs)
in between its pages.

I cup my hands around this fluffy ball
that resembles dandelion seeds.