If they could speak...

If all those things could speak... And say something, a story... Oh the marvelous stories they would tell...

The bench would tell such funny and romantic stories of how we named it, of all the beautiful promises made in its presence. It would probably mention all the laughter, all the tears, all the compliments.
But it doesn't speak... It's a silent bench in the park, and it's there now and will be there even though we are not there anymore.

The garages... Oh those garages. They have so much to say of how I didn't want to let you go, of how we couldn't say goodbye, of all the long hours just standing right in front of them without talking...
But garages don't speak. And even though we don't stand in front of them anymore... They simply don't care.

The swings. I've never liked them before and now they just gave me all the more reasons not to like them. If they could speak they would tell a sad story of shock and disappointment, broken dreams and a broken heart.
But the noise they make when you swing on them... That's not speaking. That's being rusty.

The snow would tell people the story of first pictures, million hugs and last kisses.
The story of first presents, birthday flowers and goodbyes.
But instead it makes your mouth move slower than it usually does...

The phone wouldn't tell you a story... It would just play again all those conversations full of love, anger, jokes, beautiful words and things left unsaid. It would replay all the sighs, all the smiles it saw, all the bitterness it witnessed, all the support, all the judging, all the apologies.
But it's a machine that does not record those things. And it didn't stop ringing after that night.

The ground would have so many interesting things to share. It took our first steps walking hand in hand, our little steps towards each others hearts, our waiting for vehicles and our sitting in restaurants, our picking of daisies, and also our steps towards the end.
But it holds those things to itself and it won't say a thing.

The pillow has no stories to tell... It just has tears to show and laughter it has kept under the blanket. It has black stains from running make up and smiles printed from happy moments.
But it has promised to never reveal those things to anybody.

The mirror contains so many images and questions. It would show you all the nice clothes, all the "changing-of-mind-at-the-last-minute"s, all the "am-I-pretty?"s, all the sad looks, all the sunshine.
But instead it keeps reflecting. It cannot speak.

The tree would make people listen carefully, telling the story of sitting under it sharing weaknesses, opening hearts, late hour conversations, phone calls from parents, being cold, eating ice-cream.
But it's a quiet object. And even if it could speak it wouldn't say a thing cause it's not there anymore. Neither are we.

The computer would be a hell of a story-teller. With all the secrets shared, all the feelings revealed, the friendship growing, the fights, the things not written, the things deleted, the songs heard, the pictures seen, the smilie-faces sent, the messages from different countries, the "I miss you"s, the "I love you"s, the "I don't love you"s.
But instead it keeps turning on and shutting down, signing in and logging out. And it has nothing to tell anymore.

The box would show you the special objects put in it... The pen, the flower petals, the letters, the notes, the pictures, the rope, the necklace, the sign...
But all that box does is stay on the shelf. And it has a huge collection of dust of all kinds. But no words to share.

The hands... How many things could one hear from them... Shaking because of shyness and being nervous or impatient, being cold and then being inside yours and then being warm again, the nice feeling of being held or kissed, the presents and flowers put in them, the times when they held a smile or wiped tears...
But they can't speak. They don't even have a scar, a reminder of all those years.

And finally...

The girl... Maybe she has stories to tell. Stories of shy looks, secret feelings, happiness and sorrow, forgiveness and forgetfulness, stories of funny topics and conversations that should have never existed, of ideas about surprises and presents, dreams and expectations, disappointments and excitements, road trips, memories, sitting on sofas, watching movies, eating pizzas, going for walks, decisions made together, compromises and selfishness, stubborn words, "sorry"s, imagining future, names...

She has so many things to say...

But you won't hear a thing. She has locked all this in her heart, deep down, in a room with a big locker never to be open...
Because those things are no more. So there's nothing left to say...