I was on your floor, crying.

I was on your floor, crying.
You could not be more anglic
Locked around my waist, your cheek
On my thigh, all the strength of a child
In your clasp, your furious and silent love.
I am no child perhaps, but
The rounded toes of my plimsoles
are greyed and dulled by puddle-water.
We are soft small shapes.
And I perceive
There is more joy in us, that we
Have yet
have yet
to see.