My mouth is made to kiss
& wants to
but
in the safety
of this restaurant,

my lips
can only shape words
to charm.

I laugh,
simply to allow sound
my breath carries
to break against your skin.

While I use the right fork
should I say I carried your name
inside my mouth all day,
rolled like something sweet
under my tongue,

or should I shift our conversation
from the ramifications
of neofemnism
in the workplace

to an analysis
of your eyes?

Instead,
I will pose
sleekly civilized,

sip pinot grigio,
smoke from my cigarette
obscuring desire

behind my eyes.