my father says i tell him bedtime stories,
which technically is true.
tucked under blankets with his ancient lamp,
emitting soft light around the room.
perched on my mother's half,
slivers of a hobby within my brain,
transferring thoughts into words.
with heavy eyes, he listens.
discussing contents of products,
the beauty industry, and my favorite podcast.
telling of fashion designers, cosmetic chemists,
iconic red soles, and what he calls "face goo."
turning the analysis within my mind into words;
rambling, letting tension in my brain drain.
we balance each other out;
puts him to sleep, gives me an outlet.
i tell my father bedtime stories,
all fresh to him, while i've been obsessed.
my wildest dreams I long to be a part of,
while he drifts into his.
