She lay.

Wondering what to do.

She's trashed her room.

Fourteen years of bad luck; she broke two mirrors.

Glass around her, she cries.

She doesn't know what to do.

She can't tell him because she doesn't know either.





On her bed this time,

Cuddled against a pillow, head cocked.

Holding it close as she sleeps.

Dreaming about the previous day, and making it a fantasy.

The strange excitement of him walking up the sidewalk.

The intense butterflies.

She can't tell him because she doesn't know either.



The following day, she sits on the floor surrounded in shredded papers.

Regret and revenge swirl throughout her mind.

Unsureness and doubt fills her heart.

She was his hero.

A role model, she believed.

Even more shy than him.

She can't tell him because she doesn't know either.



Paintings cover her walls.

Paintings of anger, fear, regret.

She sits at her station,

Paintbrush swiveling across the page.

Dark paintings with a splash of orange or blue.

No makeup to stream down her cheeks.

She can't tell him because she doesn't know either.



Hats and jeans replace dresses and tights.

Never been a girly girl, but not quite a tomboy.

Not in pageants.

On an ATV when she shouldn't be.

She gazes out the window, wondering if he can see her as she can see him.

Looking at her hand longingly, she closes her slender fingers around her necklace.

She can't tell him because she doesn't know either.



He lay.

Wondering what to say.

He's trashed his room.

Seven years bad luck; he smashed his mirror.

Glass around him, he cries.

He cant stand to think of it.

He can't tell her because he doesn't know either.



On his bed this time.

Arm outstretched, hand closed.

Holding an image close.

Dreaming of the day before, and fantasizing it.

The strange excitement of seeing her in her window.

The millions of butterflies.

He can't tell her because he doesn't know either.



The following day, he sits on the floor surrounded by paper.

Regret and remorse whirl through his mind.

Unsureness and doubt fill his heart.

She was his hero.

His role model, so sure and confident.

Yet very shy.

He can't tell her because he doesn't know either.



Paintings cover his walls.

Paintings of regret, remorse, and loathing.

He sits at his station,

Paintbrush still in his hand.

A blank canvas, no idea except one that not even the most skilled artist could paint.

Tears streaming down his cheeks.

He can't tell her because he doesn't know either.



Paint and pencils replace shotguns and bows.

Never been a hunter, like her.

Never really caring until now.

Riding bikes, walking.

He gazes out his window, wondering if she can see him as he can see her.

Looks at his hand longingly, and closes it around the nothing.

He can't tell her because he doesn't know either.



Texting at night, they suddenly laugh, realizing they are Romeo and Juliet.

Meant to be together, but not for now.

Rolling over, they try to escape reality through sleep,

As they are too young for alcoholic bliss.

She closes her eyes and squeezes that pillow, wondering if he cant feel it too.

He closes his hand, wondering if she knows.

They cant tell each other because they don't know either.



They begin to doubt, as its been forever, if they are truly one.

Only one way to find out.

they keep in touch, but much more distant now.

Every other day does a text buzz their phones.

He says he like someone else now,

And it cuts her, deep, but she keeps up her act.

Yet they can't tell each other because they don't know either.



She searches as he runs his hand through his brunette blond-streaked hair.

They continue the maze of love.

Searching for a replacement as they wait for the end.

Wondering if they will ever reach it.

They hold on, just in case.

Wanting a good memory to keep them going.

They'll tell each other when they finally know.