Here, where

only careful

rhythms of

our words filter

through muffled

sounds at the table,

here, where

my breathing turns

shy, almost a wheeze

while yours grows

more daring, stretching,

no one—everyone—

in the restaurant must notice

these subtle changes.

I allow myself a glance

across your eyes, settled on

mine, then we drift

together to this page.

Doesn’t it feel so right,

composing something

like poetry in the night?