Why when they converse
do they sit on the surface
as if nothing exists underneath?
Why are gossip and bars and hairstyles and cars
more interesting than heartache or grief?
Why when they talk
does it feel like a murmur
of nothing, over and over again?
I find out less about you when talking to you
than I do with my paper and pen.
Why when I speak
does it come out all wrong,
words disjointed, too earnest, sometimes rude?
But I’d much rather we discussed all our unspoken feelings
than commenting on the wine or the food.
Why do you care
if a restaurant is cool
if the company makes you feel alone?
Why would you sit there in person with someone
and text someone else on your phone?
Are we avoiding connection
because it is it too hard to bear
the thought of others laughing at your woes?
But wouldn’t you rather bear humiliation
than put on some god-awful show?
Linggow 