flapjack
Heart dropping howls cause our faces to cringe, and our parenting to spoil. Face to face as we awake, bundle of sweetness cuddled between our loose entwinement, We stand in the sun with our bare feet in the grass, arms wrapped around each other, proudly looking at our adopted son prancing through the lawn. When we are startled from slumber in odd hours of the night, the "its your turn" exchanges place me in the illusion that we are raising a baby together. He kisses my forehead, tucks my hair behind my ear, and tells me, "Flapjack is not my puppy. He is our puppy." Deep affections form toward the floppy eared chaos in my hands; love for my boyfriend deepens in correlation.