running_out_of_stuff_to_talk_about kerry in the beginning we'd curl up together on the tattered mauve loveseat and sip coffee and talk for hours, unshowered, unbothered, our words and ideas electric and shining and both novel and inevitable. we'd found what we needed in each other. we talked all the way from georgia to oregon, talked through the winding roads of rural kentucky and the utah desert, talked sitting on fallen logs by the pacific ocean, talked by campfires and in tents and diners, in corners hiding from our families. we talked over french fries and grilled cheese sandwiches, over chocolate chiffon pie and lobsters and so many plates of spaghetti. once, at a drive-in movie, we got out of the car and walked by the river talking and talking because the movie was boring. there was always something to say, even if we were talking about nothing. now i lie on the couch wondering what on earth to say to you, want to resurrect old topics, but i don't remember what we talked about. we watch more tv now. we spend more time in separate rooms. it makes me desperate for more solitude and, at the same time, so sad about the silence. we talk about our jobs (we complain and report). we talk about our families (gossip). we talk logistics--what to eat for dinner, what movies are playing at the bourse theater on tuesday night (logistics). we don't talk about the movies themselves, or reveal anything new, not that i can think of anyway. you said once, well you told me you don't like talking politics with me. this irked me, even though it was a conversation from years ago. and it's still true. i said, i want to have conversations where i feel like i can contribute somewhat intelligently, with feelings and opinions. so what is it you want to talk about anyway? you said. you were standing, holding your guitar. i don't know, i said. well when you figure it out let me know, you said, and left the room. 230326 what's it to you? who go blather from