Watching Her Grow

She’s only five.

Her fuzzy Frozen themed robe hugs her little body while she grasps Dollie, eats a lollipop, and gazes at the cartoons.

She has no idea she’s my reason to write.

She has no idea every time I look up she takes my breath away.

Lost in her innocence.

Both of us.

I want to reach across the room – from my armchair to the red couch that holds her –

and

touch her soft cheek,

kiss her forehead,

brush her hair away from her face,

whisper

I love you.

She’s my reason for writing right now.

She’s only five.

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