The ill fitting bra

The itching tag

The shoe size too small

You just don't fit right

And I could write a whole poem about you or tell you to fuck off

We meet for coffee

Your demeanor is calming

Our conversation, casual

Overly saturated with caffeine,

My blood is turning sour

We walk the block to brunch

Our small talk turns us inside out

We're two passing ships

In the middle of transition

I want to hold your hand but it feels foreign

So I pull away each time you try

You occasionally bite your tumeric stained lips

During the quiet pauses

I hold my breath through the silence

I want to follow you home but I'm not quite ready

As we depart, you say you don't like to be hugged,

but we hug anyway