Miscommunication

She sees my hand coming,

sliding, slipping

through her hair;

frisking, frolicking

around her ears;

plunging, pushing

down, so I can see

a screen?

poking out of...

I feel her touch;

long nails pressing

against my chest,

lifting my head

away from her... phone?

Half out of her pocket,

big, bright, bold.

My best friend's name?

No, must be imagining things,

Need to confirm.

Stumbling, staggering;

our eyes don't move, still

latched, locked

with hers, but my head

tipping, tilting.

Pointing at his name.

Face turning red.

She goes to grab my hand,

I turn, brush her off,

push her off.

Long nails tapping

on my shoulder,

I turn back,

she's pointing at a present,

big box, wrapped in gold

with his and her name attached.

For me?

For me.

Also the fist rapidly growing

closer to my face,

that is also for me.

Guess I deserve it