Lost Voice

I couldn't say how long we'd been sat there for. Long enough for the tape to click to a halt.
Long enough for the dials to stop their mechanical spinning.
But not long enough.
We wanted more.
I cried first.
Then you.
We took turns.
Fat tears splashing on our hands.
Red eyes dripping. Like leaking faucets, uncontrolled and regular.
Like something was broken.
Inside.
We didn't hold each other.
Instead our fingers touched.
Reaching across the white space of the table.
Our skin reacting imperceptibly to the familiarity of shared DNA.
Our ears still alive with the sounds that had died.
“It brings it all back.” You said.
“Hearing her voice.”
“You think you won’t forget.” I say.
(But you do).
We take a moment to think about that.
“Let’s turn it over.”
The tape snaps into place.
We press the button.
And wait.