Failing Small Talk

I attempt to look nonchalant
leaning against the fence whilst I wait for you.
Instead, I brand my denim dress
with anti-vandal paint.

The taffy of conversation stretches
to forty minutes long – successes,
recovery, academia, colonialism –
you have an anxious hum

that lingers underneath every statement
and trails after you’ve finished speaking,
as if the last word of each sentence exits
with its tail between its legs.

The lips you can’t bring yourself to love
twitch. We don’t view the world
in exactly the same way, but
in the same amount of detail.

I should have told you how the nettles,
after rain, glistened like girls
in soaked nightgowns.