I used to hold out hope,
as if love alone could bridge the silence.
But each year, the distance stretches,
worn thin by words unsaid,
by the quiet erosion of something once whole.

Mother, your quiet abuse
laps over me like an unforgiving tide—
this love without apology,
this ache mistaken for care.

I wish you a happy birthday—
not in laughter, not in light,
but in the hollow space where longing lingers.
The words slip through my fingers,
weightless, unanswered.

You are here,
but not with me.
And I am learning
that love does not have to be a wound,
that care should not feel like punishment.

Still, I remember.
Still, I miss you.
But I do not wait.

CPR could not revive us.