july 22.

i don't know what time it is
as usual
but it's dark and i'm too hot
my legs and back twisted.

still.
when you sleep, you are smaller
younger than you seem while awake.
little sucking sounds from your perpetual thumb.

you smell like summer
sunscreen shampoo dirt sweaty feet.
your hair sticks to my neck
despite our climbing electric bill.

i should walk you back
build a palette on our floor
something to undisrupt the disruption.

but you curl against me just so
an echo of when you lived there
and i'm sleepy (in spite of the heat)

this is a season that will be gone
too soon.

june 24.

three rocks fell out of my pocket
left in a small pile where i was lying on the couch
i noticed them this morning

this is happening a lot lately
reminders of your collections
in my pockets
in the laundry
in cupholders or a rogue shoe

when i see them
i have to resist the urge
to sneak into your room
and curl around your sleepy body.

june 22.

in the bath
together
your hair wet and slick
makes me think of when you were younger
balder
a blob of chub and softness.

now, you stack your toys
on my belly
a turtle
an alligator
(chomp chomp)
laugh and splash with your busy agenda
raise one eyebrow.