she was born in summer

She breathes the fresh air of August, only a bit before September starts, where sunflowers grow and bloom toward where the sun shines. Her shadow lingered on every road she walked through, perfectly captured by the sun; her body wrapped in yellow dress, hair tousled by the blows of summer breeze. (Too bad that it couldn’t catch the rosy hues on her cheeks, the lovely twinkle gleaming from her eyes.) She dreams big, a lot of things that they spilled off her mind but then she hung them among the stars.

To a proud mother, she is a daughter. To a close friend, she is a blessing they’re thankful for. To the crowd, she is the girl they look up to, they spare their voices for to chant her name, the girl who glows beneath the vivid colors of spotlights.

And to one, to me, she is an impeccable form of hope. A soul that beats in beauty and bliss. Of muses and comfort, as if she’s the one to say, “Keep going,” when I halt my steps. “There will come better days,” when tears dampen my sheets. “You’re not alone,” when I find myself lost, somewhere in my knotted string of thoughts.

She breathes the warm, fresh air and there is delicacy in every bit of her existence. She is the girl who leaves hope on the traces of her steps, the girl who sticks to the dreams she’d hung among the stars.

For one day I hope she’ll have all of them back in her palms and she’ll see them coming true.