Burning sensations break out each time we speak

and uncover a fault between us here,

as traffic lights and presidents rile us in equal measure

Despite the discord, we roam the rooms for chitchat,

craving the cresting tides of other voices,

the sensations they leave while passing over our skin 

We attempt to hold onto both peace and conversation,

christening it dialogue in polite company,

and using the latest in formalities to patch up any rift.

They wear thin, the smooth confines of topics ossify

through our droning on about them,

voices lose their power and pull by spewing formulas

Contrarian rebellions bring back the joy of argument

and a return to the thrill of controversy,

our newly throbbing veins provide proof of personality

Until our voices lose their ability to gently slide along

and slam and smack together instead,

leaving behind a ring of fire around the salon furniture

No one can quite remember who sent the invitation

as the get-together breaks down,

translation was once unnecessary, now it is impossible

We declare an embargo and move to new hiding spots

hewn out of cars, fences, and doors,

vowing to leave the conversations and their headache

At first, there is peace, no chance to burn up again

and we enjoy the emotional autarky

until the icy quiet of these nooks makes our skin itch

Ben Nardolilli is currently an MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Slab, and The Minetta Review. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.