I never met you.

Died years and years before I was born.

But I feel the hole you left behind

in her heart.

She tells me I have your eyes,

that they were as blue as the sky.

I know so little about your voice,

your face,

your smile.

She misses you.

She misses you so much.

Dad says you liked to give gifts

to the point you didn’t know

if others only liked you for that.

I thought I was the only one, you know.

I thought I was the only one who

loves the way I do.

She told me so nonchalantly,

as if it was a footnote in your history.

But to me,

I felt so welcomed

and whole.

You died long before I was born.

But what would’ve happened if you held on?

If the disease in your chest

from a heart full of love

held on until the cure was found the next year?

Would we have met?

Would you have told me about love first?

Would you have been the one I came to

when I learned how?

You died so many years ago.

But I think I would have liked you.

I hope you would have liked me too.