I'm terrible at making small talk,
the fumblings with introductions,
the polite dance around
countless casual conversations.

It makes me nervous
to merely graze the surface.

I'm better one on one,
whether on a silent walk
through the cool spring night
when your hand slips into mine,
or when you lie so close
that every breath warms my face.

That's a language I can understand,
the subtle nuances flickering
in your gaze before our lips meet,
or when I smooth away your silken locks
to drink in the moon's silver glow
splashing upon your skin.

I'm a damn mess with small talk,
the awkward ritual of seeing
one's every barrier.

It makes me want to pull away
into a place entirely built of music,
sensation merging with
the natural rhythms we make.

I'm far more natural one on one,
where words between two
can linger as beautiful melodies,
the unique notes that bodies
create in their sudden mingling.

It grazes the places where I wish
to know you as more than a body,
more than a yielding canvas
of pleasure to be sketched along.

I'm terrible with making small talk,
skimming such temporary surfaces
without knowing the cracks,
the flaws beneath that draw
us even closer together.

Because our language runs much deeper,
inflections and melodies that words cannot
tie down or explain the power of.

So I want you to speak beyond
the conversations others have,
curve through every sound
in the white noise surrounding
moments we should spend together.

The moments where our words exhale,
evaporate throughout the cool evening
when my hands gently cup your face,
when I bring our lips together
and show you the way I can speak
without forming a single sound.