‘How to rouse a teenager

whilst running late for work,

without incurring

cerebral haemorrhage’

I could write a book about it…

 

‘Give me a cuddle’ he says

all 6 foot, 17 years of him

It’s an excuse

to delay the act

of getting out of bed-

and I know it

‘D' you think I’m made of love?’ I say,

hurdling the unwashed undies

littering his floor.

Soon he will be gone,

already is to some degree;

it’s a countdown

to sleep filled, untroubled nights

where I don’t lie awake,

waiting,

wondering…

 

Made of love?

The world knows it,

I know it,

his little finger knows it,

I stoop to swoop

embrace the scent

of unwashed breath

and sleep soaked skin

You bet I am!