I will never get this on film, so I have to try in words.
That moment, that thing you do when you stir in your sleep,
When the dream and consciousness both fight to possess you
And you turn into my warmth.
The feathery touch of your tiny fingers reading the map of my face,
the braille of poxmarks, brows, lips and nostrils
the slow motion of lips curling and settling into a smile of peaceful recognition.
The casually languid stretch, the purrs.
All feline, all mine, this cherub child.