You might be my last baby.
You might be my last everything.
You might be the last mysterious rounding of my tummy.
The dwelling and dreaming and kicking inside.
You might be the last flush of my cheeks as I rock and dance to the rhythm of your birthing.
You might be the last triumph.
You might be the last snuffling, rooting and wide mouth looking for the breast.
You might be the last giggling, round baby putting your fingers up my nose.
So you'll forgive me for wanting to hold on a little longer.
You Might Be The Last | Jenny Wren
