I forced pathetic and clumsy words from my mouth
because if I didn't try,
my stomach would have probably forced my lunch out of it instead.

My phone silently burns a hole through my lap,
as if it retains a record
of all the awkward silences and stupid things I said.

I think of how much my hands were shaking,
and how much I panicked
that you'd notice, even though you weren't there to see.

I'm not much good at making conversation,
I'm inarticulate,
and not remotely eloquent enough to make anyone love me.

But you, more than anyone, make me wish that I could
trade this copper-tongue
so that my mouth could shower you in silver sparks (instead of my lunch).