looking down, what do i tell the child in front of me?

the child that looks at me, fears my height, sees the gulf in time that separates us?

that i am just like you, in every way. in being enchanted by dust specks whirling in a small storm, illuminated by the morning rays through a gap in space. or the spectral quality of glittering dew drops in the emerging sun, after a bout of long rain. or the manner in which fingers tumble and smooth across the grilles of a wooden gate, inviting a plethora of textures to be surprised by.

but how to describe the scars. the discovery of love, desire, sex, intimacy, care, work, and violence – that these are things that render loneliness. that you don’t need to want everything in the world to want so much. a good kiss, a warm hug, a hand that makes one feels at home… all of a sudden one is thrust into a world and time in history where these things are scarce. they are given with strings attached, written on an accounting score. they are purchase. when people who want to love are also people who have been violated, who have been damaged in the name of exchange or towards a deity that revels in exploitation, the capacity to hurt another is a specter that lingers and creeps, always raring to make a gotcha, an unwelcome entrance. you can be blamed for wanting too much. you can be made a fool for giving so much love. each time you look back, hurt encompasses as the fog of a warzone, difficult to see past. once again you’re alone. you started with being enchanted by dust through sunlight in a gap, and now you have found yourself alone, starved of magic, missing skin and saliva and taste and receding warmth. you have missed the things that matter in this world. you are belated. you are too late. you miss the steps. you miss the boat. you miss this. you miss them. you are late. you are still too late.

what can you tell the child in front of you? what happened to you?