She was the mid-summer rain: light, gentle, quiet but nonetheless intense. Her doe eyes captivated anyone she met, she could charm anyone with a single glance. Sometimes I wonder if she had noticed me the day I saw her in the Cafe. She and her friend were talking among the magazines chosen from the new stand nearby, her eyelashes fluttered after she laughed. The melodic sound making its way to the corner of where I sat. I remember her curls brushed at her shoulders like the night sky scraping slightly over the mountains. She was a mid-summer dream.
YOU ARE READING
The Dying Poet's Dream
PoetryGo on an adventure with me through words, landscapes, and dreams. Sail beyond your landscapes and follow your own compass to the beat of your own drum. Follow me through the woods and adventure to the great beyond.
