Inner Child

I lie in the grass with you,
and you point to the sky like we used to do.
"That cloud looks like a fish," you say,
and I stare at you in quiet amazement.
How could they not love you?

Your beautiful brown hair—
they cut it short all those years,
trying to shape you, contain you.
You smile, crooked teeth glinting, so cheesy,
and I remember: we were happiest
when we ran away,
just you and I, lost in our thoughts.

I stare back at the sky and point.
"And that," I murmur.
It makes you giggle.
"That looks like a giraffe," you say,
your laughter carrying on the breeze.

In all my years, I searched for someone to love you—
a teacher, family, parents, peers—
but they only found disappointment.
I should have loved you all along.

I sit up with my legs crossed,
close my eyes,
feel the breeze, the scent of the air,
until your arms wrap softly around my neck.
We embrace, and you whisper,
"Let us never stop staring at the sky."

I laugh, I cry, and when I open my eyes,
you’re gone—
back into my heart,
where you’ve always belonged.

NP