You represent what used to be, the innocent me.
The past, of when I would imagine make believe.
Of when I flirted with laughter instead of danger.
Of when the hug of a father would fix and of my bothers.

Your squish of emptiness tells me that you've lost some hope too.
Your smell of aged books tells me you are no longer new.
You're fragile and matted down, and to everyone else in the world you don't make a sound.

You've experienced time just like me. Time has molded you into what it wanted you to be.
Yet, as I hold you with care, you whisper to me not to fear, for as long as you have me innocence will always be near.