Everyone is an adult but me.
They seem so real, so fully formed,
as if I know their stories and their smells,
have lived their lives for them already,
They seem so real, so fully formed,
as if I know their stories and their smells,
have lived their lives for them already,
as if I know the eccentricity where they will fail.
Still I look in longing like the child I am,
eager to learn what illusions to believe,
what losses to sense, what fragments to call whole,
eager to learn what illusions to believe,
what losses to sense, what fragments to call whole,
as if, in every word I know before they speak it,
there is something not yet me.