She looked like summer,
smelled like dandelions
picked in full-yellow form
and edged in jagged softness.
“Smell the dandelions,”
she sidled close to say,
but edged in jagged softness,
her silhouette receded on the hill.
She sidled close to say
three words he hoped and hated,
but her silhouette retreated to the hill,
and careless stepped the murder of her likeness.
Three words he hoped and hated:
the usual and something indistinct
that careless spawned the murder of her likeness
in every waking dream.
She looked like summer
picked in full-yellow form.
He, careless, caused the murder of her likeness
in every waking dream:
dandelions whispered on a hill.