To my unborn son - I can imagine what your palms would look like covering my eyes from seeing past the wonders written in their lines

I can imagine how your fingers would tangle around my thumb silently wiping tears from under your fingernails after they've caressed my cheekbones.

How your toothless mouth would form a smile for every birthday you'd ever awaken

to the sound of a fireplace heating the brisk morning,

son I promise I'd never expose your birthmark to the brisk morning.

How I'd tell you rhyming stories of statues coming to life at night

wandering through the city's neon light

and how they'd stay out of sight

because they'd scare the people with their might,

just to hear your slowing breath as your eyes close and your mind wanders off into the night alongside the statues.

I can imagine seeing your mother in the way you'd pour orange juice into your glass and

ask me to remove the pulps.

In the way you would argue that fruit loops aren't candy, that I have your eyes when truth be told

I'd go blind at the sight of me inside of them.

How every comment on our resemblance would be brushed aside to later be pondered in a night where statues have grown claws tearing my throat.

Son I want you to know I'd love to wander of into the land of statues with you.

Long for your fingers grasping mine.

But I have seen your palms son, and I fear for you. They look so much like mine.

Wonders have nothing to do with it.