The Printer's Daughter

As we sat on the heater till the numbness took over,
and legs fell into tripping, on you, the lover.

Fingers collapsed to palm
and the nails tickled knuckle,
my head in wire and stagnancy,
in your neck crease, did buckle.

Oh that piece of jumper, I’d wrapped round my thumb,
and that tiny piece of you I’d wrapped in along.

The lisps I could have lisped, and words I couldn't have worded,
paired with the arrows of your teeth, that pearled as you courted.

Ringing,
I meant in my ears
but you could ring me if you wanted to?
I mean I’d love it,
if you please - please?
in a day or two?

We made it till now with just a shattered glass on the windowsill,
as the next act prepares,
moves the mic stand,
annoys the technonogicals.

I could slip this hair into your neck
and connect again
the best thought out minds I could find?
Or I could wait till I knew that that crook
that peers at me so softly
has me vibrantly in mind?

There's nothing other than gold in my palm.
It's salty and fresh, and it crispens in the light,
but to dissolve it in my fearful sweat
seems a waste of the delicate night.

As we wait in the dark of street lamps, I can ring my lip round your shoulder,
nothing's more painful than moving from this; your teeth appear colder,
I couldn't care for indoor heating,
or the pulsing flow of water,
there's nothing I'd gain in warmth,
so please kiss me- the printer's daughter.