Manchild

Looking into your face at two years old,
   puffed out by pudge,
      yet as familiar as your voice,
  I see the self-same boy that has brought me to completion.
I’d venture to say that you never thought
        while teetering about on the playground
                 that one day your soul would belong to me.
That precious swirled marble,
    deep in the pith of your being,
        you would place in my hand 
with the wholehearted trust of a child.
Those features so oddly parallel
             those of the man that you are.
The sunlight-infused blond locks are now
     the billows of brown that cool my skin
     when your head rests on my collarbone.
The short marshmallow fingers you twiddled with have become
     the graceful digits that sink into the small of my back
     when you press them there to draw me into you.
The tiny lips drawn into a tight, wise grin are
     the very same which press against mine
     after they softly send an "I love you" towards my ear
The plump cheeks, enlarged with baby fat, become
     the contours of your distinct face
     which I know like Braille when my palm presses against them.
The stumpy legs on which you waddled have grown into
     the bestially powerful limbs that wrap around my torso
     when our flesh meets to confer.
The blue eyes, thirsty for knowledge, are
     the same orbs that are now flooded with
     an overwhelming consciousness of life.
Looking into your face at two years old,
    I see both the man I love
          and the boy who loves me. 

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