Introvert

Fumbling words lay splayed and distant from each other in your mind,

Your fingers fiddle the neck of you wine glass,

You cat, this fiddle…

This sporadic rhyme hums at your inner child and cowers it over the moon,

To proto planets where little laughing dogs waylay your reassuring conscience,

Causing conversation to be frightfully elongated.

Pleasantries have been exchanged,

 but his face now waxes with frustration.

The awkward silences create so much space you feel like you’re floating.

The room stretches, and so does your stomach.

 And now, you feel like an oval.

You dish without a spoon, you nobody.

You, no-body.