We Met Once

We Met Once

It was late,
You’d finished studying, I’d finished work
And we struck up conversation
As strangers do
As women do
Just small talk
Nothing deep, nothing big
But no less exciting
You were gorgeous
You complimented me and I complimented you back
An easy exchange
As women do
I wanted to keep talking
Not that I knew what I’d say
I just wanted to keep listening to your voice
I wanted to learn more about you
What were you studying?
Were you enjoying yourself?
Do you feel as wonderstruck by me as I do by you?
Do you want to meet again and have coffee and
argue about fiction and debate politics and
talk about houses and animals and families and
futures and travel plans and flowers and favourite colours?
Do you even like women?
But it was small talk.
Nothing deep, nothing long.
We ended with an awkward farewell,
With a smile.
As strangers do.

Notes

Notes

Below are some notes about this piece, including the thoughts and external inspirations that occurred during its creation. 
Bear in mind, this is simply what I was thinking of when I wrote these poems and what they mean to me. If you interpreted them differently, that does not diminish how you felt as the reader nor the correctness/incorrectness of what you were thinking. 
We Met Once [2023] is a prose poem describing an evening after work where I was returning to my on-campus apartment at the time and I struck up a one-minute conversation with a fellow student. An easy sixty-second crush on a cosy, knitted jumper and long, knotless braids. I’ve noticed, that being a woman makes it extremely easy to make friends with strangers whom are also women. But flirting with them is a unique and awkward experience in itself. 
prose

Below are some notes about this piece, including the thoughts and external inspirations that occurred during its creation.
Bear in mind, this is simply what I was thinking of when I wrote these poems and what they mean to me. If you interpreted them differently, that does not diminish how you felt as the reader nor the correctness/incorrectness of what you were thinking. Poetry is subjective, and so is being alive.