I do not care for small talk,
I struggle to feign interest in your weekend
or that errand you have to run,
I want to know if you notice the misty blue
of the horizon from the passenger seat,
if the sight of rolling, tree-carpeted hills
makes you want to march off on an adventure
or if it’s just me, you see
my mind does not deal in minutiae,
I care not for tales of the domestic,
I’d rather know what kind of art
kindles your soul, which songs
set a riptide in your chest and
which actors you could happily watch
from now until the end of time,
I want to know if you’re the kind of person
who would sit and watch the sea with me,
who notices the soft, pastel bloom of spring
and what gets you through if you aren’t,
tell me not of your appointments,
your daily comings and goings,
tell me instead where your roots lie,
of the farthest you’ve been from home,
tell me which bits of your childhood you kept
and if the answer is none, how you bear it,
I cannot be the only one who would rather
talk ethics than employment, who prefers
to chat literature than the little things,
so give me those late-night drunken rug chats
where we crack ourselves open and
pour it all out, tell me about the most
beautiful sunset you ever saw,
your favourite kind of night sky,
show me the breadth of your horizons,
your essence, not your obligations,
let small talk be relegated to the realms
of mere acquaintances, for no meaningful
connection was ever built on it.
