SHE
is laying in bed with the door
locked.
The curtains are drawn
and the lights off.
The
Notebook is in the DVD player.
An empty tub of ice cream
is on the floor
next to dozens of
crumpled tissues.
She's got her music
blasting,
so loud no one can hear
her sobs.
Her fingertips are
smudged with black
from wiping away
mascara-stained tears.
She's replaying their
last conversation,
thinking I'll
never get him back.
HE
is sitting on the edge if his
bed with the door locked.
The curtains are drawn and the lights off.
Call of Duty is in the xBox.
The controller is laying on the floor,
right beneath the spot where he nearly
punched the wall in his own frustration.
He's got the music blasting so loud,
so nobody can hear his cries.
His hair's a mess from running his hands through it.
And he's replaying their last conversation,
thinking she'll never take me
back.
