For my little sister who slipped through the stars

You were small, once—
all elbows and laughter,
a voice that cracked like sunlight through the trees.
I still hear it sometimes,
in places where silence should live.

They say grief softens.
But some sorrows stay sharp—
like your name on my lips,
or the empty chair at the table,
or the birthdays that come like storms.

I wonder if the world ever felt gentle to you.
If your smile was armor,
if the weight you carried
was just too heavy for your hands.
God, you were just a girl.

And I—I didn’t know how to reach you.
Didn’t see how far you'd wandered
behind that bright, brave face.
I would’ve gone with you into that dark
if it meant you'd stay.

Now I carry the questions like relics,
and your memory like a lullaby with no end.
You were here.
You were loved.
And you are still—
in every quiet moment,
in every beam of morning light—
my sister.

My always.