In a position that is awkward, but convenient for approach.
Rather stuck in coming up with cues, to start a conversation.
Smiled too politely but anxiety screams inside.
Want to get away, do I know any of my age?
The book lies just there, within reach
Hands fidget, tempting to break social rules.
Being present but absent in another world.
“Do you mind if I read?”, that’s what I plan to say.
Just when my fingers reach the hard cover,
Felt a nudge and a disapproval shake.
Of course, the social police stopped me in time.
Hands retreating slowly,
Pretending to be aloof, I shrugged.
Back to sitting out of place.
Continued being friendly, placed my hands
Neatly at my sides, for a handshake, just in case.
Back to torturous absent thoughts
And mundane small talks, dry as sandpaper.
Wishing for an escape, some sort of fire.
Or maybe a need for a helping hand.
Anything other than this.
~S.H.~
Be First to Comment