I always liked you best when there were wrinkles on your fingertips,
even though I know you hated it, love.
Something about those little creases fitting into every crevice of my skin was just . . . fitting.
You were my puzzle, love.
I found you broken and I put you back together knowing I could do it all over again if I wanted.
But love, every piece of you was perfect.
You were quirky in your own little ways but every part of you added up to make you who you were.
My love, you were a daughter, a sister, a friend, but most importantly -- my love.
We always promised each other that we would grow old together so I could fall in love with the wrinkles on your hands permenantly.
I'm sorry I broke that promise, love.
I'm sorry the only wrinkles you have in your hands
are the ones from the folded up letter I wrote explaining why I couldn't stick around to watch you wrinkle in age with me.