I listen in silence. I have not much to say of late. I think I have run out of things to tell you. Or have just lost interest. Either way, silence seems wonderful.

You do not seem to notice, or notice at times, and ask me what’s up with your “moko?” the ever famous expression to any expression of affection or frustration. I just shrug, of late I am too tired to respond. The place seems too cramped and the couch a little out of place.

You keep talking, and laughing. I wonder how easy it must be for you, to be able to tell the story and then laugh at it on your own. I smile, as be required. And say something that is expected. Those moments of polite intervals disturbed by a nod of my head or a “mmm” of my voice.

Observing has become a past time. The way someone can laugh and then just not notice the emptiness within another I find fascinating. You tell me “ I laugh not at you, with you!” at those moments where my patience be lacking, and emotions be evident on my face despite great effort.

You smile, and I think of a child. The child that I heard wailing while his mum beat him with a stick. I heard the wind that slammed against that stick that stung his skin. Well the child cried, and you laugh. But I still fail to see a difference. I wanted to strangle that mother who caused the brat that pain. Then again I remember seeing the kid later on, clinging on to her, fighting to win a moment of her attention. And notice of course her blatant indifference. Why do I remember that when I look at you? Baffling, but be it what crosses my mind.

Moments of silence from me, and rants from you. A reversal of roles. I do what I do best at blankness. Lean on your shoulder, block those words that I pretend to hear, which I never seem to hear, and immerse myself in that emptiness, grateful for the warmth I feel against your shoulder, and that smell of familiarity which I have of late learnt to love.