The bed is too small for all three of us now.
Mum sits on the floor while I read.
You love your stories, "Daddy! Not like that!"
Except when I try a little voice acting.
The bed is warm but the wall chills my spine.
Mum's toasty in front of the heater.
You look at me, nose inches from mine.
Except for misty eyes no one would know:
I gaze upon a universe of potential and it fills me utterly.
Joy is too small a word.