Hurricane Boy
He showed up with the storm,
not meant for me at all,
just a friend of my brother’s friend—
a tagalong, a shadow in the hall.
I thought he was cute—
but silence felt safer.
Girls like me don’t fall for strangers…
unless falling is the point, a spark in danger.
We crowded ‘round cards and screens,
eight bodies there, or so it seems.
But it felt like just us two,
laughing until words felt new.
Sparks flew bright from stormy skies,
secrets traded, shared in sighs.
He handed me music—
songs I still hum.
Lyrics etched into me
like graffiti on a wall gone numb.
Then he sang it soft,
“Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future,”
and suddenly the world felt smaller,
made just for us that night, a fragile sculpture.
The next day,
he drifted back through the chaos,
and the room shrank around us, taut with pause.
My heart sprinted ahead,
laughing at itself,
as we traded glances, whispered threads of words,
tiny explosions in our orbit, unheard.
Then a kiss—quick, bright,
like sparks from a lighter
caught in a summer storm—
and he vanished before the smoke could form.
By morning,
the storm was gone.
So was he.
And still—
some nights I wonder
if he remembers me.
If my laugh, my words,
my small reckless heart
still echo somewhere
in the calm after his storm.
Copyright © Sarah Moncada | Year Posted 2025
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