Shyness

(I had a very nice Posh Afternoon Tea on Friday with some colleagues.  Good tea; I had an excellent Darjeeling, a lovely clean clear taste, and no-one bugged me about my not having milk with it, hurrah! (why spoil decent tea with milk?).  Also good sandwiches - especially the smoked salmon and the cucumber with capers - good scones, some very good cakes, even a glass of Prosecco to finish off with.  Lovely.  But oh, my heart; the chap I have a wee crush on was there.  I know I'm being silly; it's always good to see him, even now when I know he's not free.  He's an intelligent, articulate, interesting man with an immensely likeable sense of humour.  I enjoyed having the chance to chat a little and to get to know him just a scrap more outside of work-based conversations.  But because I'm not yet over the crush, I find I'm still painfully shy around him.  I wrote this afterwards.)

Shyness

Let no-one say

That shyness is a blessing

Or an attractive thing.

Shyness is a cord around my throat

A tremor in a healthy hand

A blind spot in the vision

An earthquake in the stomach.

Let no-one say it's charming

Who has not felt

That nausea of dread

At being among

Strangers, or friends.

Or seeing that chap you like

Pass by, when you've not

Had a chance to prepare

Anything at all to say.

Shyness is a fever

With no external symptoms,

Shyness is a wound

With no external scars.

The shaking hands,

The quaking heart;

Shyness is me psyching myself up

To go into that room

Full of my friends;

Losing a little more hope, each time

I see you pass by;

And never having

Anything at all to say.