I feel so much discomfort
when people talk to me.
I don’t know what string of words to say,
which intonation to use. Where to look.
I can’t look you in the eyes
too long before I drift away.
I don’t know how to fill silence
or how to make you laugh,
when I am me.
I have a quiet voice. So you’ll
have to get close to hear me.
But come.
Get close to me.
Chances are I’ll let you.
I long for human warmth
in my vicinity.
Skin on my skin.
Handshakes.
Kisses on the cheek,
and bear-hugs.
I love the voices,
of every colour and texture.
The stories and non-stories.
Call me by my first name.
Call me sweetheart and ruffle my hair.
For now,
I can only give you a sheepish smile.
But, come next.
My outrageous humour,
my refreshing intelligence.
Maybe a story or two. True or not.
Stick around.
For my
unabashed joy and the little things
from my childhood that linger on
my heart and my brain.
And then,
dance with me.