Pluck, pluck, pluck. I pick the petals off a sunflower from my school’s garden. Pluck, she loves me. Pluck, she doesn’t love me. Pluck, pluck, pluck. My head lifts to watch the blue above. Each drifting cloud sort of looks like owls, or perhaps doves.
Pluck, she loves me. Pluck, she doesn’t love me. The school bell rings with a bee-like buzz and sting. I’ve hidden in the garden all day, and not a soul has noticed. Classes are over and it’s time to go home. I finally look down, and all the petals are gone, and so is the girl.