Prayerodox

The clock breathes heavy

and slow—

as if fighting for its next respire.

The ceiling hums like tired bones,

my spine folds into the mattress

like a tattered flag after a tempest.

I bargain in the dark.

***

Son, please—

mercy—

sleep.

***

He is a lantern in a blackout,

eyes blazing open,

little fists full of defiance and star-dust,

pajamas stretched like borrowed armor

on a beer gut.

He babbles battle cries

at stationary stuffies—

a tiny general commanding

another campaign against rest.

***

I am sandpaper and sighs,

dried-out prayers and emails unanswered,

a teacher brain still buzzing with classroom noise.

My eyelids—

heavy as overdue bills.

My soul—

a frayed hymn.

***

God, just let him close his eyes,

let me borrow a breath of quiet,

let the universe soften its edges long enough

for sleep to find me.

***

But then he grins—

moon-slice smile,

milk-bubble breath,

lashes curled like they’re guarding heaven.

His toes wiggle

like tiny prophets dancing

in divine fidelity,

hair sticking out

as if the wind whispered joy into each strand.

He pats my cheek,

a clumsy benediction,

giggling at nothing

and everything.

***

Ten years I begged You,

wrestled with You,

until bitterness bruised hope.

I nearly shut the door,

folded the cradle dream into the attic of Maybe-Not.

I cursed the waiting,

resented the silence—

felt abandoned by the God who names stars

but stayed silent when they fell

into my midnight tears.

***

Yet,

here he is—

miracle with sticky fingers,

answered prayer with dinosaur pajamas,

hurricane hands,

legs like lightning,

learning to say Mama and Dada

as if he’s unlocking the world

syllable

by syllable.

***

He bounces,

laughs at the dark,

and I—

half-broken, wholly blessed—

watch him shine.

***

The night wraps itself

in the lullaby of crickets

and cicadas.

My bones ache,

tomorrow presses its weight already

against my ribcage.

But I fold him close,

breathing in Cheeto dust

and lotion,

and I whisper to the quiet:

***

If tiredness is the tax

for this tiny wonder,

let the hours drain me dry.

***

I would rather stumble through morning,

eyes burning like city streetlamps—

than ever sleep

in a world

where he didn’t wake me.