The Rock

   She sat on the rock, their rock.  The rock they had sat on together.  The rock no one else knew about.  Everyone knew about the river, it ran straight through town, but no one knew about their rock- except them.  It was not a very big rock, and it wasn't anything attention grabbing, but it was enough... it had been enough for them.  Their first kiss had been on this rock, this is where they came when they resolved their arguements, this is where they had come to sit quietly next to each other.  Just the river singing its song, the birds singing theirs, the trees reaching for the sky, and their rock.
   But it had stopped being enough.  She could no longer make him happy.  She willed herself to cry, but she couldn't.  She could feel the tears waiting to come out, but they couldn't.  Every time she heard his voice, or heard his name, or dreamed of his arms around her she only wanted to laugh.  The thought of him still filled her with a joy she could not quench.
   She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the rock, reliving every conversation they had had together.  She had never felt so comfortable.  And she didn't regret opening herself up to him.  She could never regret those hours of her life she had given freely to him.
   What hurt her the most, is that she doesn't know what he thinks of her now.  Does he regret her?  The unanswered questions she has are the things keeping her up at night.  The moments she wants to run to him about she has to keep quietly to herself.
   And when she's scared, there's no one to tell her everything is going to be ok.
   She let her fingers drop into the cool water of the river.  She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her back.  Then she stood and walked away.

   Leaving everything but his memory behind.

B!tche% and @ueen%

   The story of my life is not worth telling, but my counselor wants me to write out “all my life experiences”.

…What?!

   But my parents have bribed me with a car if I continue to go to my “counselor” and do everything she tells me to.  So, I’ll give this a shot, can’t hurt to write about my mundane life in hell.

   I was born August 3^rd in the small town of Calemsville, population 3,225.  My mother always complained I had a big city attitude, which was true.  My whole life this whole town has been too small for me.

   Most of the things I found amusing included: painting park benches without telling people, putting glue on toilet seats at school, taking all of the pencil sharpeners out of the walls, breaking the taillights on every car in the town, smashing mailboxes, and other such things.  Needless to say most of my adventures ended with me in handcuffs, sitting in the city jail, and my parents getting to be on a first name basis with every police officer in the small town- all 8 of them.

   Now, I’m not a bad kid- just bored.

   And idle hands are the devil’s handiwork, my mother always likes to tell me that when she picks me up from the police station.

   I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I got blamed for the Shaler barn catching fire 2 summers ago.

   That’s when the whole counseling thing started.

   It was July- hotter than hell.  We’d gotten no rain in weeks and everything was hurting from it.  Every surface was covered in dust, you breathed in more dust than air.  Everyone parked themselves in front of a fan with a huge glass of cold ice tea.

   Even I was lying low and staying out of the sun, except when I was taking my four wheeler through the desert sands.

   But I wasn’t even doing that the day of July 24^th.

edges and scraps.

everything i need to say
to you
is written on the edges
of scraps of paper.

everything i ever needed
is your eyes
and the way you look at me.

i could drink in
that look
forever, and ever.

that look,
is my happily ever after....

but that's on the edges of scraps of paper.
those words are the ones i can't find
when i'm near you.

those are those the words i try not to hear
as i lay alone in my bed,
wishing for your arms around me.

because you aren't my happily ever after.
you are only a dream,
written on
the edges of scraps of paper.