It was the weight of you sat resting against my knees.
The ease with which your features lit up around me.
"He likes boys" you tell me.
And I smile back,
as wide as I can stretch my lips.
I try to make my face beam like his.
I try to match his effortless moon face.
And remember what it is like to thrive off simple joys.
For I am 28, and felt the cynicism of life's scorn.
I have weathered worn skin and a patch of white hairs in my beard.
But, I swear I will never let you see the furrowed brow of a frown around me.
And I thought of being a father and it struck me how natural holding someone else's son felt.
I couldn't help but steal nervous glances at his father for fear of taking his place.
Walking straight into it, as if putting on his shoes.