Haze

There’s some kind of mask covering your face,

But I can see that bright flush creeping beneath the powder

When I tell you where I think we should go. 

Those baby doll eyes, all droopy 1930s—  

Complete with mascara-darkened lashes, batting themselves at me,

And that pouty bottom lip sliping and sliding over mine. 

You’re hesitating, waiting for the permission

That you know I’ll give

When the pink clouds clear

Confirming your desires.