Poetry and writing

One to ten, not counting again

You still crave summer.

You still crave summer one year ago.

Skipping rocks by your house lasted hours.

Clack

The rock I toss doesn't go far, you laugh and my face burns with shame.

It always seems to be like this, I'm always the fool.

Ready or not, here I come

As I hide in the cupboards in your cellar, I think to myself; this must be a great spot

But you still find me.

I hide but you find me.

I run but you find me.

I am quiet but you find me.

I am caught.