We have a problem

We have a problem regarding your silence.

Because whenever you are not using all the fancy words while elaborating intricate conspiracy theories,
you are mute.

Every time I mention our interactions.
Every time I hint you about our possible encounters.

Sometimes I wonder how all that quietness can fit inside that cute-as-a-button body of yours.
Or how all that alcohol gets you only slightly and elegantly drunk,
letting you conscious enough to keep asking me if I’m all right.

I am, I repeat. Over and over again.
I am all right.
You, on the other hand, have a problem regarding your silence.