Child

He scrapped the cheese

off his home baked pizza

and gave up

half way through his organic low fat milk

and said, I’m just not that hungry tonight.

His eyes scraped the ceiling

while I folded metal paper

over left overs

and I remembered how it was to be 9.

10 years my mind rewinds

and I’m sitting in his chair

rocking and waiting for mom to come home.

The tin crinkles in my hands

and I remember falling

against chain link fences that lined playgrounds.

At almost two decades old

my mind plays memories

like a movie against my skull

and nostalgia like monsters crawl

from the corners of my soul to drag me further.

He gets a piece of scrap paper

and I’m enveloped as I remember

3rd grade love letters I never gave out.

The energy never ends

and we both grab out heads

while the foil beneath my fingers crinkles

and he screams at himself.

He says his second soul takes over and makes him sad sometimes.

I tell him my soul likes to write.

He asks if he can play outside; the rain dragging

in streaks of red wine against the window

in the setting summer light, and I tell him,

maybe another time.

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