Your eyes were like a tired sunset,
Shining with a soft amber light,
Seeing the beauty in even the ugliest of things.

Your fingers were slim,
What they would call musician's hands,
Whispering over the pages,
Fluttering over the poems I wrote for you.

I can still see your smile,
Creasing happiness over your youthful face.

I can still see the way you stole sly little grins at me when you read them aloud for the first time.

When I was writing them,
You dealt with my secrecy teasingly,
But you also loved it,
Knowing that I would not show you until I was done,
Until it was perfect,
and that was all the knowledge you needed,
Knowing that,
In your childish way,
Whatever I was doing was going to be lovely.

As the year wore on,
I would often find you in the sunlight library,
Standing in front of the tall windows,
The light shimmering off your pale hair,
Giving you the appearance of some young sprite,
too delicate for this realm,
Too fragile.

I would often find you,
Book in hand,
Lips moving silently,
Whispering along to the words I wrote for you,
Not knowing that while I watched,
Unnoticed,
My heart was breaking for you.

Near the end, 
I'm not sure you knew,
I stayed up all night,
Sitting next to your bed,
Listening to your shallow breathing,
Watching your slight form struggle to breathe.

I don't know when,
But somewhere in that night,
Silent except for you,
I began to read the book I wrote for you aloud,
My voice shaking,
Tears coming to my eyes,
As I described you.

I read it through,
Then I started over again,
And as the dawn light started to softly set the room aglow,
I looked up at you.

You were awake,
Amber eyes set afire by the rising sun,
Golden hair against the pillow creating a halo around you head.

You were smiling,
Except for the sadness,
In your eyes,
In your smile,
Because you knew,
As all dying children do,
That this was probably the last time I would be able to read this to you.

And so I did.

And when I was finished,
You stirred slightly,
And murmured with half closed eyes,
"Again, please."

And that's the way it was,
Me reading,
You listening.

The sound of my voice mingled with that of the birds outside,
So it was a while before I realized that you were gone.