Let’s start over. 
Trust me, I’m not that big 
on accuracy, so if your secrets are lies
they are still safe with me.

I don’t want to hear, I don’t usually do this. 
We both know you never do. Amid 
broken bottles glinting in the backseat,
our tongues braid a plait of sorry.

Another woman
would not admit that she’s yours
for the taking – so take me 
among the furs in the coat-room, 
on the tablecloth’s pleated spill, 
in front of the mirror that cracks 
with light to salt open your eyes 
and catch you off-guard, 
agape as a fissure on the skull.

At the seam of mouths bruised 
with kissing, the last word 
is always smothered. 
This is what it is to be wanted.