Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Love is sticky, and doesn't pull apart from the past so much as it holds on like gum on fabric...stringy, elasticy tendons that snap back toward me and others hold tight to cling. Searching for methods that might loosen the grip of adhesion; freezing, scraping, applying solvents. Pulling apart, snap by snap until I am finally resigned to leave the remnants where they hold. Questioning the reasons why I bother. Wondering what to do with the portions I it waste, or should I put it somewhere I can find it later on? First love and every subsequent love for me always results in the same dilemma. My pockets are full of randomly placed gummy bits. Some lumps are hard as stones, but others are still tacky, all are completely invisible to anyone else. If one day you see me looking up toward the rooftops while I dig my hands into my pockets you'll know what I'm after...these little treasures made of gum, each unique, worthless to others, irreplaceable to me.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.