She sits on my lap
singing some song with made-up words 
gobble garbled sounds
there is so much joy in her musicking
I think 
Once I was just like this
full of my entire self
and
I don’t want this to end for her
the engulfed, embodied self love
I want her to stay grounded in these moments of exquisite mundanity
She’s fallen asleep
worn down by hours of play and exploration

Why do we exchange this for the enslavement of adulthood? 

I will fall asleep, too
but, from exhaustion of masking
my play pretend is a melancholic ostinato
that hums underneath the weariest smile