I hear you lingering outside my door and
I wonder: how much of your life have I
stolen from you in all the times
you’ve had to worry about me?
Are there dreams you’ve let die
to keep me alive?
Did you shut yourself off in hopes
of opening me up?
If they gave you the world,
would you give it up to stay?
What else did you give up?
What else are you
going to have to?
Will our world ever extend outside
of me, or are you stuck with me
You always talk about the magic
of watching your kids grow, but
what’s the word to describe the light
that leave your parents’ eyes,
gradually, over time,
as they try to fill yours?