She came on the bus,
Wrapped in a blanket,
As if her sugar sweet nature would melt in the morning mist.
So small she was...
No more than five.
Her hair like her young mother’s,
Waist length,
Almost black,
But not quite,
Thick,
Yet seemed as if gravity had no affect on it,
As each strand had a mind of its own.
Her hair was in a long braid,
Tied back with flowers,
Babies breath intertwined as her hair twisted down her back.
Loose strands hung in front of her face,
Lightly cupping her cheeks,
Framing her eyes.
Her eyes as dark as her hair,
Looking only across from her.
So big her eyes were...
All the while,
Without speaking a word.
Her golden skin,
A mix,
A blend,
Between Asian and Hispanic,
Was such a contrast to mine.
My fair tone envious,
of such unaware beauty,
from this small creature.
Her naturally pouty lips,
Small and perfect,
Opened only slightly in the shape of an O.
Such innocent beauty,
So perfect,
So angelic,
That it would not surprise me if her braid,
Was hiding small wings.
So pure,
I thought,
Her aura must be.
...Such a shame,
that her eyes spoke of such sadness,
that I shall never see.


 
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