Everything that’s happened and could happen
has happened, is unfolding still, somewhere else in time.

There’s a me somewhere out there,
still wondering who I’ll grow up to be

There’s a me somewhere complaining about the carrots on my plate.
That would give anything to be older, to be here

And I wish I could fold back all these pesky layers of time between us
to tell them they’re wrong.
That they need only wait to get their wish,
that it’s me, plummeting ever irreversibly forward
who would trade anything to go back again,
just one last time.