her.

Happy 21st birthday, my pretty baby, my angel on Earth. At last, you can (legally) drink with me, bar hop with me all night. Ist it spring, or has summer already crept in? I’d like to imagine the day you were born was both and neither. The sun was golden in its fullest summer glow, flowers pushing through the last bits of frost, every melting drop of ice feeding the ground so the most beautiful exquisite blooms could open up just for the sacred chance to witness your first cry. The whole world, in all its weary imperfection, tried its hardest that day anticipating you. It arranged its finest light, its softest winds, its most tender colours, like it knew you were coming and wanted to be worthy. But nothing could ever truly be worthy of you anyway. You deserve the world, yet not even the world deserves you.

I know I’m not. Yet, I can’t help this selfish part of me that doesn’t want anyone else looking at you, wanting you, loving you the way I do. Forgive me (not) for that. Younger than me by comparison, but it is you who inspires in the most bizarre ways. You’ve taught me to be softer, gentler, to love the way you love me. In other words, you make me want to be the best man for you. The closest I can become to what someone as angelic as you deserves at least.

I love you. For all that you are. For all that you have been. For every beautiful unknowable thing you are yet to become.

Forever yours, though even forever doesn’t stretch far enough for what you are to me. Happy birthday, my blood, my pulse, my heart. You’re as vital to me as breath.