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Contributor: Isabella Vasquez

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Her hair is hazel wisps of wind
splayed across her cheek.
Her last attempt to wear shoes forgotten
sitting on the curb with bare feet
bare souls, no words needed.
Between the lines we drew
there were collected moments of wonder.
Our smiles cracked liked thunder
The sky rumbled and poured,
we spun in harmony.
Our laughter mixed into the rain's melody
a secret language between us.
I stared into her brown, golden eyes
like a face-up lucky penny.
That day only returns to us
In our dreams.

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Isabella Vasquez lives with her three dogs in Los Angeles, who she writes short stories for. She likes to surf and explore the world on her free time.


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