At least there is consistency in emotional recidivism.
Criminality you can depend on.
Vacant words.
Hollow ***.
Empty eyes.
At the very least there is stability in the pattern.
You can sense the hand of dismissal as it cuts through the tension to lay its mark upon your cheek.
Delivering the degradation of being hit with the indifferent truth.
Nothing more than a pillowed and silken chaise that cleans cooks and allows you to lay your every waking trouble upon her breast, upholstered in thin sinewy tatters, longing for mutual fortification.