little charlton.

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he openly cries at the end of Disney movies.
he revived all my dying, wrinkly, brown-crispy plants.
his eyes are so blue and transparent and vast, its like looking
into flying.

i like his warmth and his leanness
his bad jokes and good pie graphs,
how on the first night, in the back of the Uber
he took my hand and held it gently between his,
like we were old companions.

i love how at night he would fold me up in a tiny bundle and fit his limbs
and face and chest into the nooks and crannies of me,
how he swings from wise, vinegary old man to
petulant child to father to lover to me.

what is only pieces, doled out from here and there
from this boy and that boy, is all reconstructed
and the puzzle is getting clear, i am seeing an image.

when you were 6 years old, watching a stage play of Cinderella
sitting on the floor, eyes wide in the half-dark
‘can somebody love me?’ Cinderella sobs, ‘love me just the way i am?’
and amidst your tears, your little voice cries out –

‘yes, i will!’

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