I flew through the night to find you in London (That look, the one that squeals "did you really?", It’s not what you think so I took you home).
Over European airspace allies practice-drill with mixed squadrons readying for a quick response to the terror creeping across the continent but blame thunder.
We end up in Brussels where I, behind, work until two, watch you sleeping, sheltered, just a fragile boy.
You are not ready for this. I juggle with wires, batteries, the buildings of a bomb to keep you charged until we’re home.