An Octopus’s Lament

You'd think it'd be easier to hug people with eight arms.

As much as they poke around in the conversation, that old disconnect between feeling and brain kicks in
leaving me to watch and analyze every movement of yours and of mine
hoping desperately for some familiar pattern to suction myself to.

And it's tough trying to make friends with a face like this.

They always say I look alien, perhaps fearsome, but behind the unblinking eyes
I'm just a spineless old softie with two hearts too many,
none of which do that great of a job anyways.

I still don't understand how parrots talk so fluently through a beak; I can't.

It's too sharp and embarrassing and I keep it hidden away if I don't know you well enough
because the urge to swim off in a cloud of my own ink is just too strong
(unless you're a crab I guess, but that's dinner.)

But worst of it is trying to get to know folks on the shoreline.

I can come up, but not for very long
and what good is surfacing when the entire time
half of me just wants to crawl back under my rock?