Small talk:

Riding in the back of a black town car, the driver asks where you’re from.
You smile.

You’ve always liked small talk. You can share an easy laugh
with the honey-eyed girl who rings you up at the coffee shop,
as she flits from table to table, sunlight catching in her marbled curls.

You don’t need to know her name, what books she’s read, or where she shops for groceries.
For a moment, however brief, you can imagine how it would feel to love her.
Then, once you’re done, you can drive home to an empty bed.

You’ve felt love before–not the kind they write about,
but the kind that swallowed you whole.
You felt love crest your lip, briny and deep, before you swam to the surface, gasping.

Some people fight over love. Some grow old searching.
It makes you feel better that all you did was return vacantly
to your childhood home.

There are strangers in that house now.
The air smells different, and they painted the walls
a shade of yellow you’d never choose.

You’re a stranger, too.
To the driver, to the girl in the coffee shop, to your childhood home,
to yourself.

“I’m from anywhere but here.”
It's not true, but it's close enough–for a stranger.

Elizabeth Autrey is a criminal defense attorney based in Atlanta. In her free time, she makes music and writes poems for her friends. She also loves her cat, Tommy.