Frame of Nostalgia

Saw a photo of not so long ago,
Of a boy, myself, around six years old,
Smiling at the camera, his eyes glow,
If only I could tell him what he didn’t know.

He’s too young, lucky to be naive,
Lucky to not know the hardest ways to grieve,
To run and laugh with a mind at ease,
And eat all the fried foods laced with grease.

Beyond our names the similarities end,
We don’t have the same lives or friends,
Yet he wishes our relationship could mend,
Reaching out to me, his hand extends.

Seeing his hand, I reach out as well,
But only halfway, as I can’t really tell
If it is the karma of time trying to sell
An illusion of innocence I once felt.

He keeps his hand out, awaiting a greet,
No hesitation or speculation, I can’t believe
How much I’ve changed, I fall on one knee,
To hold the hand of a better me.

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