At some point it was no longer about talking. Directionless, we walk along the docks conscious of the silence we’d created, unable to express the vast tract that lie between us. We had grown cold; cold as the closeness the vacuum of chaotic space presses against each beating, breathless breast. In all honesty, neither conviction was readily defensible; we’d spent too long defending indefensible perspectives to leave any hope for compromise. For too long explicit inaccurate broadsides had replaced the subtle brushstrokes that portray intimate expression. In an instant it was all so obvious. With little fanfare, the clock softly ticking, indifferent to our differences, the veils fell calmly from our faces. Embracing the fears reflective of our defection, we cling to lies we whisper to ourselves throughout the listless nights. Quickening our pace, we faced our failure and frustration without the faith to fear the consequence. Talk had long since left us, unable to sustain us any further.