I spend most my day rocking a baby.
My nights are full of diapers and bottles.
Baby clothes piled here and there.
I swear I always smell slightly of sour milk
I wear my hair up and makeup is rare.
Clothes are chosen out of comfort.
I'm a mom.
Yet I still dream.
I still stare out the window,
Wonder if "he" would still want me.
Still stay up way too late.
Wish on shooting stars.
I am still young.
I still dream
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