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They told me the sky was too far to touch, so I planted it in my garden. All I ever wished was, for a perfect love story with a perfect ending. Perfection is a myth dressed in daisy chains and daydream. It looked so beautiful, like I was sleeping and this was the perfect dream I could reason to myself for a long slumber. I held on, like roots gripping the clouds and growing daisies in the sky that no one else believed would bloom. I let the sky grow in the softness of a “certain hope” always, while I pricked my heart on the thorns of “almost” and “not quite”.

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