My son runs, wrapping arms around
my nebulous waist.
"l love you, Mom!" He squeezes tighter,
as if letting go would be his black hole.
"I love you, too, " I squeeze back, absent mindedly. (Where is the cream? I need coffee.)
"I love you more!" he breathes, without pause.
He gazes into my eyes,
searching my planets.
"Oh no, that can't be true," I retort.
I forget the coffee, his eyes are starlight.
"I love you to infinity!" he exclaims,
staring harder.
He wants to sail the Milky Way with me.
"Me too," I reply, and remember oxygen tanks.
I'm speaking in light years, and I hope the sound waves will catch up to him.
His face cracks into a million years of forever, before he lets go,
dancing across the universe of our livingroom,
his solar system intact.
At least for now.