you were eight weeks old
a small thing
but our hands were smaller
still, you fit there
held as though you were meant to break
maybe someday, but not today.

today, you made love into a character trait
it curled into our chests and settled there, somewhere
and the weight of it has grown
for i have not room to breathe
it has not left.

now, there is nothing left of you
save for blurred images
blurry eyes, salt water drops rippling in an ocean—

i used to take you there.
there, you would greet everyone new
like they existed just to learn your name
there, a child said hello to you for the first time
fifteen years later, you said it back for the last.

and i could not help but to think
if you had died eleven days later
you would have seen the flowers bloom.