would you?

Sometimes, I just like hearing the sound of my voice.

And it helps, dearly, that you find me interesting. Or, at least, pretend to.
Because that's what counts. The facade of things. We both don't want to dig deeper, and are content to stare at brick walls.

But what am I doing?
Stuffing syllables into your mouth (like soggy bread into a turkey).

We both know I'm all hot air and big words.
And you. You're all hair gel and saliva,

shadows under tables,
orange juice,
rum and coke and high balls,
silver skies and cold weather.






Thanks.