Little Fire

I miss his accent when he’d say my name
and the way his eyes lit through my shadow
during bedtime story

his little hands playing with my old toys
reliving old games he’d never seen me play

his messy blond hair
after every time he’d wake up

I miss
all of his first times
becoming second, third, and learned

I miss climbing trees with him,
running barefoot through the woods

But what I miss the most
is simply holding him
saying his name
and hearing him say that he loves me too


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