It’s here that I really see you, where I can carefully trace the outline of your face and ponder all your strung out, neon energy, where you’re finally still, where I can collect every thought I’ve ever had of you and channel it into my hands on your small chest.
It’s here, perched next to you where I count your breath, stuck in the quiet, that I feel remorse for the times I wasn’t what you needed me to be. Momentary chaos will take away your ability to pick up words as delicately as glass.
Here I can almost see you growing, like catching a flower opening its petals. You are a rush of lightning, an eclipse, my slap-cheeked bolt of energy. You’re a blur and a philosopher, a passionate wildfire, you feel everything on cavernous levels.
It all happened in an instant, just like the lightning rush.
You woke one morning with a face that looked harder, older, a voice that was lower, steadier, thoughts and feelings in need of real discussions, not the early evening bathtub chatter about ice cream flavors or the playground gossip deciding who flies highest on the swings.
I’ll try to look at you, to catch you just like this, even when your wheels are all turning at once. I promise I’ll never stop trying to be the one standing still, taking it all in.
Don’t blink; the rush is fleeting.