That would have been a blast.
To see your light shine so bright,
To howl at the moon
Watch you light up the room.
Hear the stories you tell.
Stay up late into the night,
Smoking and talking about books.
Ah you'd rival Kerouak with your stories of the road, your tales of the night and your love of your friends.
But instead my shoulders are lumbered
With the task or reining you in,
Keeping you safe.
Teaching you grace and tenacity,
Yet trying to retain that glorious ineffable spirit
That makes you you,
And makes me yearn sometimes
to have been born,
Your friend instead.
Though it is my greatest gift
That I get to share with you the books,
That will keep you up talking,
With those lucky enough to be born your friends.