stomp
There are certain subjects with certain people in your life that have become conversation non grata. Not because they aren't in your every waking thought, but rather because they are the elephant in the room, ambling aimlessly in worn out flip flops. Not to the point of extinction clearly - whoops there it goes again, stomping its bulk about, leaving giant, scarring footprints embedded in its wake, but you understand that talking about them only leads to futility.
So we've entered into a subconscious pact, and the subject goes unbroached with deliberate intent.
Enough practice, we've found, makes it work. In an intricate dance, we talk about studies and work. The weekend. The way we were. We talk about other things. The easy quiet we've always known, the soothing familiarity of each other's company returns as the elephant in the room grows still. Nothing more than dead weight now, taking up space, despite its best efforts to make sure we never forget.
So we've entered into a subconscious pact, and the subject goes unbroached with deliberate intent.
Enough practice, we've found, makes it work. In an intricate dance, we talk about studies and work. The weekend. The way we were. We talk about other things. The easy quiet we've always known, the soothing familiarity of each other's company returns as the elephant in the room grows still. Nothing more than dead weight now, taking up space, despite its best efforts to make sure we never forget.
