plathfan910

In my mind our lips press tight together.  His hesitancy says he thinks we should just stay friends, but I’ve waited too long for this.  I want to feel his body pressed against mine, even if it is only in my dreams.  His arms, so strong, so warm, slowly circle around my waist, and he pulls me in closer.  Even though we shouldn’t, I can tell he wants to kiss me too.  And so he does. The rain was pouring and we grasped for whatever little shelter we could find under my garage.  Our first kiss, his first kiss, and not a hint of hesitation.  Six months of dating, and he was finally ready for this.  The moment was perfect, like someth

Just about a year ago, You answered with "I guess," When I asked you if I could be the girl by your side, The one you smiled down on, the one your friends all knew Whom you introduced to Mom and Dad as your girlfriend. Just about a year ago, Was when I first held your hand. I should have known then where it was going to lead: To phone calls and text messages and all those wonderful hugs From the first time, to right before we said goodbye the last. Just about a year ago, We drove around together. You had no license, so I did it, But you always felt bad, Such a gentleman. Just about a year ago, I found out some of what makes yo

I don't really understand my father, at least, not all the time.  If you asked me about him, I could give you all the basics, sure: height, date of birth, hometown, even some things that are not so basic: values, home life, certain illnesses, but after that, I can't think of much.  And people have asked me before, and I've always had the same answer: he does what he does because he cares about me, and I know that.  Sometimes, though, it's hard to look past the harsh tone in his voice, or the sternness of his words.  And yes, he still lives with my family; he has since my parents got married in September of 1989, but his job has kept him away

 He sat in silence and wondered what he had done wrong.  All around him were his memories, the pictures and letters from her glory days, some her favorite clothes, books and music, were all scattered around him on the floor and on her bed.  The room was exactly the same as she had left it, clean and crisp, with everything in its place, not a dust ball on the floor or a hair on her brushes.  Everything was the same, except the room belonged to no one now; it certainly didn't belong to her.  She had chosen to leave its warmth and comfort, never to return again. How had this happened?  Why had

 Thin white streaks on the tiled floor, the turquoise and white tiled floor.  If you looked fast, you might miss them, but they’re there.  The small lines of soap that have dried on the floor, missed by some tired janitor who was in a hurry to get home.  Even if he was heading to an empty house, destined for a frozen dinner heated up in the microwave, eaten solemnly in a dimly lit kitchen, either reading the newspaper or watching a 10 inch black and white television perched on the edge of his small table, he was still in a hurry.  Who would want to be stuck in a large high school late at night, in