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It's not that there's nothing to talk about.

I could talk about how Greg has officially left the country.
I could talk about how I have less than 5 weeks left as a resident of London.
I could talk about how my life is on pause at the moment while I wait to hear about a job that might take me to New York City.
I could talk about how instant is the only coffee that I can drink black.

I have many things to say, but can't find the words right now. So I'll borrow the words of someone else:

"The way I write is who I am, or have become, yet this is a case in which I wish I had instead of words and their rythyms a cutting room, equipped with an Avid, a digital editing system on which I could touch a key and collapse the sequence of time, show you simultaneously all the frames of memory that come to me now, let you pick the takes, the marginally different expressions, the variant readings of the same lines. This is a case in which I need more than words to find the meaning. This is a case in which I need whatever it is I think or believe to be penetratable, if only for myself."

From The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion