“It’s a beautiful night for sleeping,” you remark.
I say: “You always say that,” but inside I like it.
“I don’t always say that—only when it is.”
“Is what?” I ask.
“When it is a beautiful night for sleeping.”
You walk over to my window and it creaks as you open it. The light from across the street makes the shadows of branches look like gnarled hands grasping your face.
You never let people push you around.
“Remember when you were little and you told me your tummy hurt so much there must be a lion inside?” you ask, smiling slightly.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Why do you always talk about that? I’m not little anymore.”
I don’t tell you that sometimes I still feel like I’m little and there’s a lion in my tummy.
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