We used to talk.

We used to talk, you and I.

The words, they used to flow, like a raging river, and your sentences were cut by mine, and that careless laughter at the same sounds coming from two mouths at the same time.

Mouths which needed to celebrate that sound by fusing together, and then our tongues, still speaking, exulting, happy in mere communication.

Ecstatic that we could share, and my brain could work with yours in tandem and that the speech bubbles next to our heads contained the same dialogues, and I could point to yours with surprised recognition “Look! We match”.

That we were like two peas in a pod and there was not one joke which I did not feel the urge to repeat to almost instantly, and a time when I believed that just saying your name out loud enough and fervently enough would jingle a bell somewhere in the universe and you would think of me at the same time.

I used to call it love then, because there was no other reason for the cosmos to conspire. I was not the chosen one, it just happened to everyone in love.

And even with all my modesty, there was a time when your voice on the other end of the phone, or your text or even the mere subject of an email from you would snatch a happy giggle out of me and then the breathless second of wait for technology to catch up with the pace of my heart.

Then one day, we were all talked out. Just like that, habit had worked its charm and I knew your responses pat and you knew my life tenets, and there was nothing else to share.

In a while, there was someone new with whom the words were flowing

We used up our quota and now that you and me are so far off, I wish we had some more silences. Because, I guess, contrary to popular opinion, words are not infinite.


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