Can’t tell

I want to climb into the folds of your sawdusted, flannel shirts.
To feel your oil-stained hands pat my head.
To laugh with you real big, like nobody’s watching.
To run as fast as I can and look back and see you, smiling.
To fall into your arms when I’m scared of some big thunderstorm.
To leap in the field behind your house and have you sweep me back up.
To get hurt real bad just so you can tell me it’s gunna be alright.
To play cowboys and indians, with you pretending to be the bad guys.
To be the good guy caught in the bad guy’s grip.
To remember how poorly you pulled that off.
I want you to tell all your old stories. Of war and peace.
To fall asleep when you recite your poems.

In the years since, it’s been hard for people to tell where you end and He begins.
I still can’t tell the difference.

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