and we lay pressed together,
he tries to teach me the dialect
of butterfly kisses,
and being so close,
we are no longer a landscape of two mountains and valleys moving,
but we are one,
and its so warm and comforting to feel his weight as he weighs on me,
and he still needs to be closer,
wrapping compact muscles,
around my stumps for legs,
and he is sticky fingers, that bestow solemn pinky promises,
half attempted secret whispers yelled across the room,

he is a sweet sunrise,
when all you have ever known is the blistering loneliness of night.
He is not afraid to talk and to share his thoughts,
and there are moments, snapshots of my failing infrastructure,
that lashes out at his incessant nature, me willing him to stop.

He discusses my beauty with strangers and mid thought tells me that I am so very beautiful,
and when he says it I believe it.

he falls asleep like one who is proud to tell anyone listening he is 3 and a half he had to add.

i wish he were mine,
mine to keep,
mine to trully love,
but I'm just make believing playing wifey to families,
with no need,

but right now its just
you and me
and the me I am with you,
and in this moment i hold your small 3 year old hands in my hand,
and its enough to be.