I wonder
what you would ask for
this year.
Something pink?
Something black?
A stack of books?
A pair of headphones
so you could ignore
your brothers
in peace?
Eleven is such
a strange age.
Still young enough
to believe in magic,
old enough
to begin making
your own.
I wonder
whether you would
make a birthday list
so long
I would laugh
and tell you
to pick your favourites.
Whether you would
tear through wrapping paper
or carefully peel
every piece of tape
to make the moment last.
These are the things
that hurt
in ways I cannot explain.
Not only the day
I lost you.
But every ordinary
little moment
that was stolen
alongside your life.
I never got
to learn
what made your eyes
light up.
Never got to discover
the strange little things
you would collect
or the gifts
you would treasure
for years.
So today,
my sweet girl,
I have only
what I have always
had to give you.
My love.
Unwrapped.
Unending.
And eleven years
of wishing
I could give you
something more.
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