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Putting On His Shoes
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.
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