Sweet Aphrodite, What Have You Done?
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He calls me God, and I have never been worshipped before.
I think I love him more because he likes strawberry milk more than chocolate. How he sneaks he sneaks pink syrup in our grocery basket with a sly grin, pours it in his glass until the cream glows like fairy dust. How he twitches in his sleep, sometimes an arm, sometimes a leg striking my side, like a puppy chasing rabbits in his dreams. How he cries quietly to his favorite songs when he pretends I'm not looking.
Don't pretend for me. I need soft love. I love all things sad and vulnerable.
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