I could offer the ten-year-old me
Who looked upon cloudy skies
And ran with yellow butterflies
Among the cosy lanes of a childhood
Sheltered by Superman
And fed on Enid Blyton’s breakfasts.

But then I would also offer
The bullying that went hand in hand
Because of the way he looked
And talked and walked and danced
The fear of attending school
Mixed with that of disappointing family.

I could offer the twenty-year-old me
Who believed in a right and a wrong
In the stories of hope and phoenixes
And that all love lasted because it was strong.
A wisp of a boy man who refused sex and drink
For he wondered what people would think.

But then I would also offer
The nights of turmoil and of bitter hope
The achings and the longings
The tragedy that is first love
The giving up of his body to someone
Who disregarded it all shortly.

I could offer the thirty-year-old me
Who saw all that truth had to offer
The filtering of nostalgia
Into something larger than life
The build up of friendships and stress
With the growing of love that was endless.

But then I would also offer
The disillusionment of dreams and
All the detriment of hopes and desires
The understanding that everything comes
With a deliberate price and weight
That finds you any place, soon or late.

I could offer the forty-year-old me
The vagaries of life that always amaze me
The finding of new avenues to love
The idea that age is not just a number
It breathes with purpose and shares wisdom
That is hard won and not given to all.

But then I would also offer
The fact that the heart can still break
Because though wisdom comes laced with death
The softness of the heart can yet remain
Because in the warmth of it lies the rub
That the giving of love must be infinite.