We all have our own stories. It just happened that you were the beginning of mine.
At age ten, we had a whole tree to ourselves. We would play tag with smiles too big for our faces. We would play hide-and-seek where you could always find me. I was always the loser who cried with the wild flowers and bees, while you would uplift me and wipe my tears away.
At age fifteen, we had a whole tree house to ourselves. We would stress ourselves with instagram stories and posts, play videogames with chips and sodas on the floor, eat pizzas, study for exams, have sleepovers, design our tree house, and have fun. We became something else, but not quite.
At age eighteen, we had a whole car to ourselves. We would drive above the speed limit, change lanes, curse reckless drivers, stop at drive-thru's and drive through a risky and busy highway. You would hold my hand every time the stoplight was red. I was always smiling and so did you.
At age twenty, we drifted apart.
We remained connected through texts and calls on special occasions. But as time went by, those hi's and hello's became more less frequent. Our posts and stories on social media reminded us both that we left a piece of our heart somewhere on another continent, on another time zone. But still, we were happy and assured that both of us are still breathing and happy, or just trying to fool the entire population that we are. But we knew better. Because we left our hearts on our own tree, on our own tree house, on our own car.
At age thirty, we both got married. To different people. To different circumstances. When we both knew that we left our hearts on that same place we found them. When we both knew that we were something else, but we never crossed the line, we just are.
You said I was the Silence. You said you were the Bass.
***
"If we could be something else, what could we be?" I asked.
"You would be the silence and I'll be the bass," you answered.
YOU ARE READING
Silence and Bass
Poetry[COMPLETED] The silence was too deafening so I wrote them in tattered torn pages with jagged lines. Poems I wrote even in my sleep. The ink in my pen profusely bleeding out words and stories from my past that shaped my present and makes me anticipa...
