He sneaks into my bed,
his tiny hands and feet are cold,
always.
He tangles himself in my limbs,
makes traps,
so he'll know if I try to leave his side.
I am swing set,
a slide set,
my head is a drum,
my hairs are guitar strings.
I never look put together like I used to;
there are tiny stains on all my shirts.
In my purse you will find lipstick,
a tube of jet black mascara...
and a tiny Hotwheels firetruck.
I remember how things used to be simple,
I remember how I used to move,
unencumbered,
alone.
I love him every day more
than the day prior.
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