you are there, in the kitchen of my dream at the stove making enchiladas and tapioca. you are probably one hundred and i think you might keel over, dropping your white head into the *** of yellow pudding. i wonder how you got so suddenly old and i so suddenly young when i can remember reading fairy tales buying you sugary breakfast cereals and letting you sleep in my bed even though you kick and also tell people the embarrassing things i say in my sleep. i am so hungry i want to eat it all and leave none for you but you say to wait to wait until my eyelashes turn into a million tiny butterflies and tickle my skin with their light wings. but i'm hungry now, i whine shoving past you pushing a hot tortilla between my teeth and swallowing greedily desperately before collapsing into a sea of blue tiles. i awake violently, your small foot at my chin. staring at me is a toenail painted blue. i stare back at it, into that tiny ocean.