How to Fall In Love on Hinge

Satin skin and shadows,

Mindless patterns,

The soft but strong swish, swish, swoosh of your pulse as my fingers follow your veins to your wrist.

I laugh soft and say: “Your blood pressure is bounding.”

You squirm and sigh, “No, it’s not,” holding your tone even, edgy.

I put my fingers against your radial artery and smile to myself.

“Okay,” I say, and go back to tracing circles up your wrist, down to your fingertips, tracing the outlines of the tattoos on your hands.

Your hands rest on your thighs,

And I find myself tracing roses to the softest crease above your inner thigh,

You move some and wait,

Tense, bated breath, anxious air.

I trace back toward the edge of your thigh and feel your body relax, almost an audible sigh.

My hands find their way to your knees, your ankles, your feet,

And back to your thighs again.

I push your hip and say, “Roll. That way.”

You give me an almost defiant look as you oblige, a small smirk creeping in before you hide your eyes.

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