by Clayton Cash
I've always been the solid type, the type who borrows the patience of stones, who sits by the stream and watches it smooth the edges of pebbles. I thought I had perfected the technique, I thought I could grind down your edges and make you into that into that perfectly symmetrical river stone you had, and we could carve an inspirational word, like love or peace, into your surface. I walked home from work and found your note next to the salt shaker. You took your things: the coffee maker, the rug, the bra that had been on the chair for a month. You took the sheets and the pillows and I was terrified when I saw how empty it was. It had been raining all summer and the river by the farm was raging, carrying the pebbles in it's bed further south.
Clayton Cash is a poet by nature, but dabbles in prose as well. He currently resides in Northern Vermont, and is working on a short poetry collection for chapbook publication before he gets his BFA in Creative Writing.