Poetry Talk

New post from Comfort

A love that fits, why ?

I spend time chatting with strangers,

their words circling me like moths—

soft, harmless, repetitive

and all I can offer are borrowed nods:

“Yes… hmmm… I see what you mean,”

each one a polite stamp of existence

that leads them deeper into monologues

I never asked to host.

I remain there like a mime in a glass box,

performing silence,

letting it stretch between us

until it becomes a command:

continue… keep talking… fill the space I’m drowning in.

And somewhere beneath their small talk,

I wish—just once—someone would read the air

instead of the script.

” Have you seen the new episode of stranger thi…” Must’ve been interference.

A breeze brushing past my ear, nothing more.

Because surely no signal meant for me

would arrive so…

” I love y…”

Must’ve the been the wind,

The tide or the mind,

A light not meant to be found,

Wait, let me rewind :

How I changed,

My tone, structure and lines

Just not not be found.

Maybe I’m the…

I spend time chatting with strangers.