i've passed the textbook of grief that i read on the internet. yet i talk about you to my new friends the old version of you, the one who was supposed to glow like those skinny boys your age do, somewhere far away where i bought you a backpack that you never used, probably because the you right now is too young to be graced with such friend.
of all things that i want you to do, things that you should but now it's could, one of them is to see you standing tall and smug with what you have, which is your face and everything, as i, supposedly to, use you as a projection of how a boy your age should look like (well, in my mind, those skinny boys hurt me because you looked just like them but you don't have to be them).
as long as you're healthy now and forever, i'll let you read those fantasy books that you like so much, those fantasy books that make me question my own capability because it's going to be days, hundreds of them, before i can write one for you.
i'll let you wear ugly patterned bermuda shorts mom picks diligently for you.
i'll let you do whatever you want.
i'll let you barge in without knocking with your little brother to annoy me like you two used to so we can have a great off-key karaoke session like we three used to in that language we're familiar with therefore,