Dearest me,
You love sunrises like you love sighs
and old boots and books,
how the snow reminds you of old friends,
like comforters,
like sad days that at least weren’t alone.
You love to breathe, to cradle your own memories.
Dearest me,
I know you loved hard,
so tried and true,
hard shells for each bruise.
I did not pat your head when you cried,
dearest, I’m sorry.
I’m here for you now.