Well here we are again. Alone in a room together with nothing to say.
So we sit in silence without even the pretence of caring anymore, without any effort to fill our empty ears with junk so that we might feel normal, even if only for a minute or two.
I could ask how your day went but I don’t care to ask like you don’t care to tell, so I don’t. I just sit, and stare ahead, trying to conceal the contempt building up inside because of your very presence. It’s not your fault any more than mine. It’s ours, plural.
Every move you make annoys and I know lying next to you later will leave me feeling empty, our bed a coffin for a dead relationship.
It was healthy once and fulfilling, brought joy and contentment. Now it’s rotten and consuming, its metabolism was too fast for us, its hunger has turned on us and we’re consumed day by day.
Funny how a relationship can turn like that. We thought it was ours, our love, but it was beyond our control. We were out of our depth, and now we're an inch from drowning.
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