FLIRT
Michael Keshigian
She is a propellant
when she hesitates,
kindles a flame
when she strokes my hair,
kisses my cheek,
brushes against my torso,
grasps my hand and giggles.
I blush.
My eyes reflect
the fever she incites
though she talks in riddles,
feels strange and ungainly
in my arms.
I am victim of her charms,
clever as a Mozart symphony
minus the finale,
a progression of unresolved chords.
