Judas to touches

Can you hear it? Monday morning boasts its own soundtrack, and today the bitter symphony has resumed its incessant broadcast. Maybe it takes a few long breaths, a stronger cup of coffee, or an extra minute or two lingered in bed, but eventually the music must be faced. Singing along becomes the first surrender, but being so familiar with the words almost makes it hard not to start mumbling them. Sooner or later, the tune works its way into muscle memory, and my feet start shuffling along to the beat before I even realize it, tempo kept steady by the barely perceptible ticking of the company time-clock. Most defeats are quiet, and this one is really no different.

True love suffers, and is silent.

This notion, perhaps, the secret founding principle behind your relationship's modus operandi. And in that spirit, I suppose our love must be false, because I seem utterly unable to keep my big mouth shut. Yeah, I may end up sticking my foot in there more often than not, but I have a healthy enough appetite for humility, and cannibalism is Paleo as far as I can tell. In truth, it is not just pride that I can swallow if it means I can keep flapping my gums, because one woman's dream is another's nightmare, and it is only with abject terror that I could ever imagine being fated to live so quietly... A lifetime of needless talk, fattening stupid words to fill the space uttered from lips we never cared for... concluded because we could always say more with a look or touch.

Let these hungry eyes starve

and let this flesh feast only on famine

but let me grow fat on a lifetime of conversation's "empty" calories.