Our story has a different taste to me now, something like the faded mint of chewing gum that has been stretched across your tongue too many times. Our visits are shorter, our conversations less interesting. (We've stopped admitting flaws, and I'm not sure what that means). As I sit across from you, your words wash over me like a swarm of insects that I have to wince and dodge my way through, and you are increasingly aware of my discomfort.
We run through the motions of what we once were, occasionally admitting a detail that our current relationship doesn't warrant, but somehow we still feel obligated, like we're committing some kind of infidelity against our former selves by feeling so distant.
Then you sip your drink the same way you always have, and I bring my knees to my chest the same way I always have. We smile. For a moment, I think I still know you the way I've always known you. I could paint the way you tie your shoes, the way you drive, the way you run your fingers through your hair.
But we can't seem to dig ourselves out of the silence.