When I see your eight-year-old
face and see
How your mouth moves over your teeth when you talk,
When I see the way you comb your
hair, swooped over like that
and parted down the side.
I am reminded of someone I know that is very similar to you, only thirty years older than you are now, and it is not hard to imagine
how you will turn out.
The way your lips will move
over your teeth, the way your hair will be slicked back or in a knot on the top of your head.
The things that you talk about and obsess over, the fights that you have with
They will still be there. You will like the same colors and textures, and you will make the same mistakes when you read.
Eight years or thirty-eight years, You are you.
How do I know? Because I am me.