Mixed Signals

Mixed Signals

By Eve Zennarrow

Last night I fell for
the ultimate thirst trap
when you took your shirt off
and your skin was
dripping with honesty.

My glasses are not smart;
I could not calculate
how many fingers you were holding up,
so I just fixed my hair
and offered you a beer.

“Maybe later,” you said,
as though now was not a good time
and there were more pressing
matters to attend to. To do. To do.

Then you moved to make a move,
took my hand
just as if to check my pulse,
and there it was,
my arteria radialis flirting
with your fingertips,
begging for tachycardia.

“Did you hear the new Guided by Voices
album? It’s pretty good,” I mumbled,

saving my hand from your grip
like I could break free from already
being pronounced dead on arrival.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“Just some space,” I whispered
and moved closer,
waiting for your mouth
to shut me up.

My soul, a handful of pins,
fell at your feet,
desperate to be melted
into something softer and red.

“Can’t you see I really like you?”
I heard while on my way to seek
release from the bondage of your limbs.

“I like you a lot. Do you understand?”

“I’m not fluent in affection,” I joked.

Or maybe I was being honest
for the very first time that night,
carried by the surprise
of things going well for a change.

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Best,
Eve