By Allie Marie
We sit on a bench with quiet lips.
We count our pulse on our wrists.
It is a funny thing – time.
Though, they say with age it is like fine wine.
Then, why am I here with you – alone again?
I have lost part of a friend.
And still, I can’t read silence.
I just know we’re getting tense.
We make us difficult;
treat ourselves like it should be mystical.
We are left to stare at the ground;
we won’t dare to make a sound.