A little less

Without you, things like birthdays matter a little less. The hurt I blamed you for in your life fills the crack in my foundation - the weight of the hurt I feel in your death. So yesterday I ate cake and opened presents and before bed I pressed the yellow and pink flowers on the birthday card you gave me when I was sixteen against the palm of my hand. Trace the letters you wrote with my pointer finger. Nothing much. But it's everything I have left of you now.