We said we'd never speak of it. I know.
And so we don't, at least not in words.
But the fact of it hangs in the air.
It's in the way we don't speak of it. It's in the sidelong glances and the heaviness of the silence.
It's in the awkwardness and the stops and the starts. It's in the politeness.
It's in the way we tiptoe around it, lest one of us slips.
We don't talk about it. We pretend it isn't there, and we're afraid of what speaking of it would do.
How would it change things? What parts of us would it break?
What parts could we never get back?
So we tiptoe, and we talk about other things. We stay where it's safe.
But I think we both know we're pretending... and that as long as we play it safe...
...we aren't playing it real.