I want you to stay with me
wrapped in blankets and softness and light
your head nestled into my neck.
Tiny hands twirling my curls around your fingers,
that pincer grip blisters
and the scent of your dreams linger
while we tell stories like scripture.

I want you to stay with me,
starfished in bed, fists punching,
feet kicking, mouth snoring,
coughing directly into my face.
Waiting for your chance to scream,
scrunched into my body with such extremes
no space to breath in between.

I want you to stay with me,
hysterical because I took
your shoes off before you were ready
or gave you the wrong sliced bread,
as you morph into solid oak
waxing lyrical about the
asymmetrical sandwich I served you.

I want you to stay with me
in the early hours when sleep
ceases to exist and at times we both
begin to cry. It won’t always be like this
and one day I’ll miss that rocking chair
and your tired, tiny body in my arms,
moulded into our exhaustion.

I want you to stay with me,
screaming with laughter,
jumping off sofas onto pillowed floors
bedecked with blankets.
Flying through the air to land on a bed
and bounce until your laugh
falls out of you like coins from a pocket.

I want you to stay with me.
I want you to stay with me.