I don't have a child,
disappointingly;
abstinence has always been
my means unto an end,
but I can feel her,
a part of me just waiting for a vessel
to inhabit and be changed.

My lover would not sanction
such thoughts of selfishness,
my desire for foundation
or cessation of the turbulence,
though hectic is inherent to a parent;
nothing says "I love you"
like another sleepless night of sacrifice
but it's the kind of loss that's right
for me.

Cinder-caged,
devotion aging gentle eyes,
I don't mind her soft demanding,
baby-pink lips beckoning with screams;
I haven't dreamt in days but it's okay
if she keeps breathing,
reaching helpless hands
to grasp heartstrings.

Lacy dresses brim with unborn tears,
the fear I hide behind when desire
lashes out against good judgment,
please don't make me fall in love
with phantoms;
I crawl incumbent
through redundant fairytales
because I'm grounded by the chains of age
and circumstance.

But I won't have a child,
disappointingly.