Age

All his shirts were the same colour –

Black.
“Why Black?” I would ask.
He would smile and say nothing.

It wasn't a rhetorical question.
I really wanted to know.

Was it the calming inactivity that attracted him?

Was it a representation of his past?
The colour of his mother’s favourite sari?
Perhaps his sister’s hair clip that he would steal and tease her with?

Did the colour stir his mind?
His soul?

Was it good?
Was it the opposite?

Was he holding on?
Or was – were we, looking forward?

Was it that he couldn't tell?
We had known each other for just twelve years.
We had created life together, yes,
But, is twice enough?
We had fallen and risen together so long that the folds of skin
on our foreheads
under our eyes
near our lips
had begun to seem the same.

So, why was it that he couldn't tell?
Or, was it that he didn't want to?

His silence held the mysteries of the highlands and the seas.

I had innumerable questions
My eyes screamed them at him.

He just smiled and said nothing.
But, so did I.

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This was written as part of a competition. We had a few different themes that we had to build into our writing and them perform it. The theme I chose was the "mysteries of the highlands and the seas"