Forgot your password?

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

Sign in

  • Time would wane and slip between the clutch of our fingers as our digits would tremble in the tight embrace that sheltered us from the separation.

    We knew well that the ecstatic electricity in the air would eventually subside, replaced by the unuttered incumbrance of our future goodbyes.

    But while we were us.
    When she was her
    And I was him
    The weekend seemed long and bright and the inevitable separation seemed so far away.

    I would hold her at night as she would fit perfectly into the curvature of my body.
    Stroke her hair as my breath would fall slow and damp on the top of her head.
    She would make those small grunts that implied deep satisfaction.
    And she would tighten her grip around my body until her breath became heavy.
    I would smile till sleep took me as well.

    We would wrestle on top of the pillows.
    Burn the midnight oil with carnal desires and sweet nothings.
    We would tire the night and outshine the day.
    And she would look to my lips and eyes and find qualities I never thought I possessed.
    She would smile well into her sleep.

    But no matter how we raged in defiance of time. Sunday would always roll around.
    And I would sit in the bus waiting for it to depart. She would look at me through the window with a smile on her lips but with anguish in her eyes.
    The tears would come and her tears would drown out the wonders of the weekend.
    It was always a heavy set rain she would produce that would wash away the structures of bliss we had built on foundations of sand.

    I never could stand to see her cry.

    The bus would begin to roll and the hours would begin to pile up till it was obvious that it would be 2 weeks till we could start the cycle over.
    • 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.