We always had that little spark between us,
which made simple things a joy when we did them together.
There has always been that magnetic energy between us, pulling us.
Closer. Closer.
We have an attraction for one another.
It's made public by the way we can't help but look at each other longly.
But we both know we will never be.
Because we are both smart; smart enough to know we aren't good for each other.
And even though our hearts try to pull us together, we know nothing will come of it.
We'll become closer and closer, but never close enough.
We'll talk until sunrise but that's the only thing that will come of it, and we both know it.
We have a flirtationship.
We flirt endlessly with one another, both knowing,
Nothing.
Will come of it.

I could pull up the old picture of us that always makes me laugh.
I could re-read our old text messages where you express your feelings towards me.
Or I could turn on the song we listened to in my car as it rained last night.
But I won't.
Because somehow I know you won't turn on American Mouth just to think of me.

Often I find that things happen a certain way for a reason. It might not be obvious, it might not be a planned out thing. But usually behind every little thing there is a reason for why it happened. Little little things leading into little things, that lead it to kinda little things, that lead into things that aren't so little. Whatever you do, whoever you are. Be good at it. Even in the little little things. Because, eventually they will become big things.

As I lay beside the pound the organic sounds mix with the industrial ones coming from the concrete structures not more than a few good pebble skips away; for someone who is an experience pebble skipper at least. I always envied my male friends at the river, grabbing a small rock and persuading it to transform into a water crawler as it made it’s way across the tea colored water. My stones never did that, they were determined to act like stones; sinking into the brown abyss with one big splash. The sound of the water filling the gap my stone fell into, the swift reminder I could not convince the matter to do as I please. The sounds around me now give me a peace as I hear them. The vague rustle of the leaves as a working bee buzzes through them, bravely determined to fight through the grass jungle to reach the sweet nectar on the flower that resides hidden inside.
      Nature always has a way of projecting a determined spirit; I can see it in the weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk. No matter how many times they are damaged, torn, poisoned, or malnourished, they always strive to grow. They have never ceased. Not once have they given up, they have a natural hope they hang onto. That they can recover, no matter how much they’ve lost. Organic life, nature, brings hope; it brings the wish of recovery, the willingness to adapt, and the ability to change. Just as the rocks leap from my friends’ hands, and turn into something they’re not, choosing to become more than a stone, refusing to sink. This is what nature brings. It brings Hope.