A tiny baby holds my finger.
His breath is heavy. Steady. Rhythmic.
He tosses and turns. He cries off and on.
He sits up. Eyes still closed.
He falls back down into the pillow.
His head is sweaty. His gums are red and angry with little teeth just millimeters below, slicing themselves bit by bit to the surface.
He wriggle to find my breast. Latches on. Suckles. Unlatches again.
He coughs. He whines. He hums back to slumberland.
His hand never leaving my finger. Clasped fiercely.
He knows he is safe. He is loved. He is mine.