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.
.
