“Let’s attach the sofas,” she said. “You can’t be serious,” I chuckled. She was serious indeed. She even showed me how she’d connect them, making shapes with her tiny little fingers. I loved her so much in that moment.

So I gave it a thought, let’s try for one night. I could tell it was the most uncomfortable sleep she’d ever had. I can’t let this become a habit, I thought. There’s no way she can sleep like this.

And sleep, she did. She dismissed the discomfort, went feral with her legs all over me. I woke in the middle of the night and saw her at peace. I watched her sleep. It made me feel alive.

My heart flourishes while I watch her sleep on the sofa. I love the fact that she touches me with her hands, all over my body when she sleeps. She puts it in my T-shirt. Strokes my chest. Presses it when it hurts sometimes.

I could give years of quiet, peaceful sleep for that one night of sleep with her on the sofa. I want to lock my legs in her legs. I want her to turn around so that I can grab her neck from her Tee and say that it “feels right.” Because it does. Because I feel like I can kill her at any point, and I choose not to. Because I love her.

In the morning, she makes me sleep on her chest and babies me. Fondles my cheeks with her tiny palms. Kisses my eyes. I love those mornings. I want to wake up to her every morning so that she can grab my head and put it on her chest.

My eyes hurt as I write this. And I wish my little one was here to kiss them right now.

It feels as if I’m surviving on a little piece of my heart, and the rest of it is still beating but far away from me.