Printing Press

We both wore crisp blue shirts
the day you blinked and said
you dreamed of owning
a printing press.
The starched cloth
stood against your skin
like a slab of paper
lying thick on a table,
and this was a sign to me
that your declaration was fate.
When I loved you,
your idle confessions
were solid as black font.
Of course,
you never opened
a printworks, and I never wore
that blouse again –
the one of cerulean linen
with eyelets around the neckline.