so anyway

there are long gaps
in the conversation.
that cliché
cricket sound
chirps
in your ear.
tumble weeds roll
along the dry
corridors of your
mind. a dusty
breeze can be
heard rattling
the trees.
you can't always
be fun and clever.
alert and wise.
sometimes you've
got nothing more
to give, the tank
is dry. so you both
listen to the sound
of breathing.
waiting, waiting
for this ghost town
to resurrect.