Call me your council estate princess,
cider is my nectar and your neck is the place where I rest my weary head,
resisting the urge to try on your glasses,
so I can see from your perspective.
God is keeping an eye on me,
because I’m the kind of girl you have to watch like a quaking kettle or a nervous clock,
not because I’d run off and get into trouble,
no, I can find strife while stationary,
a fact with which you will become familiar.
I see you everywhere,
but you are the dearest and clearest when I dream,
softly playing Gershwin as I gaze upon your slender fingers,
your father’s ring glistening in the moonlight as I write about the magic that you make, just by existing.
when will you?