I wake to tiny feet

And long legs

Always perpendicular to my body

But parallel to my heart

And you will grow weary

Of my bad jokes and silly puns

As I grow tired of your always-presence

Though we’ll each miss them when they’re gone.

But now, at seven

You’ve taken up that role of

the bad comedian

Much better than I,

Here at 35,

once was.

So I don’t change your angle anymore

Or carry you to your bed.

Instead I wake and hold your feet in my hands

As they dig mercilessly into the flesh of my lower back

I’ll turn–

shift in the sliver of bed your body has spared me

And stare at you.

The pool of drool drying on my good sheets

With streaks of marker up and down your freshly tanned arms

Mixing like watercolored rainbows

Staining everything.

I stare and know if I dare to touch your cheek

You will wake and leave me

Or eat my stash of chocolate

And then go.

So I keep the short distance of your legs between us

And love you here,

More than I’ve ever loved you

Enough to take the blows

And honor the distance.