You do not understand the extent of her value. While you compete over her with another man, you are slowly pulling her apart. She’s deteriorating as you wait for the snap of the wishbone. You’re so fixated on winning you don’t realize that you’re left with the longest piece. You don’t think to make a wish and not because you are satisfied with what you have but more so because you are now preoccupied all over again, searching for potential partners to play tug-of-war with. As if she is something to be won, she is the hydrogen that carries the stars and the warmth that powers the continent. She is not something to be pulled paper thin, she is the spine of the book and the binding of the pages. She has specks of stardust in her hair and beams of light in her eyes that scream determination. She holds the power to carry the weight of the world among all of its many moons but you see her as merely an oxeye daisy. Yet she’s the entirety of the meadow and all of it’s inhabitants.