When you ask me if I’m happy, in that light and fun voice of yours, even though it’s 6am or at a time so close to it that it feels like 6am, it lifts me and makes me feel happy, makes me remember happy, makes me reach for happiness in my heart—right after I tell you that I will be happy after I really wake up; you smile like I should be as awake as you, as if I, like you, slept for the last ten hours and not the last four or five.  And I wake up a little more because of the joy in your tone and for a little while, I convince myself that sleep will find me at the end of this day even though it’s been elusive for the last several.

The boy asleep

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