Your Grin is Yours to Give

I catch her whenever the lights confess after starless nights  
and she skwints with open mouth.  
Akin to smiling, but restrained by strings forcing it out in contortion.  
 
That is the only reason why I would say her smile's crooked.  
 
But I am sorry because those pins were my intimidation
fabricating a signal with a darkened string.  
 
Otherwise, her smile is the picknick under the shade,  
and a bubbling calm erects a visage of caprice  
and healthy youth.  
 
I am sorry that I called your smile crooked.  
It was only that it was commanded,  
not merited  
by the charm of a gentleman.