Forgot your password?

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

Sign in

  • I was a writing major. You were a writing major.
    I liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers. You liked them too.

    You were a redhead, native, French horn-player, soprano. I was a blonde, downstater, saxophonist. My voice was never clear enough to sing like yours - always stifled with sore throats and coughs and a lack of courage.

    You were the lionheart. I was the lamb.

    You told me you loved me and I said it back. You meant forever and I thought I meant forever.

    We made plans. Inside jokes. We would have sat on the beach and watch Orion come up over the November Superior.

    I visited and we laughed for hours about how old your vacuum cleaner was, for some reason. You visited me and spilled candle wax all over my favorite shirt. I still wear it.

    But then you got possessive and I got defensive. You called me out on my laziness. I called you out on your idea of how I belonged to you. We were going to watch Jane Eyre - one of our favorite stories - that weekend.

    I was still trying to adjust, you were trying to maintain your patience.

    If only you'd waited three days. Three more, till Saturday night.
    If only I wouldn't have let everything slip through my fingers.

    Maybe I wouldn't feel guilty for still using the iPod you sold me for $25. Maybe we'd have smoked another stogie together. Maybe you'd stand beside me one day, me in white, you in peacock blue. Maybe my lungs wouldn't shrivel when I see you on campus and my hand flies up into a half-assed little wave.

    Maybe I'd have learned a bit more about what all of this actually meant.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

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.