it's late with no clock to whisper the time or day.
with one hand i stroke his cheek, dispelling the myth that there is no room for intimacy after babies. i love his day-old scruff, stroke his hair, corner-smile at the little kisses he plants on my nape.
with my other hand i curl owen towards me, make sure he's still sleeping, only to prove the myth after all. i am close enough to still smell his shampooed hair, and his toes dig into my ribs (again); my smile turns full at the wonder of being surrounded by my loves.
it's a working of math, for this word-girl: the at once mother and at the same time lover, how i never really stop being either.
i drift to sleep thinking, white is the sum of all colors.