The one that attacked our toes as we read.
Or just wanting to cuddle, she'd climb to the head
And curl up beside us whenever we slept.
Gone is the happiness welcoming me.
Gone are the pats on my hands or my feet,
Of her kissing my face or trying to eat
Things like paper or pen caps, as if those were a treat.
Gone is the sound of her morning alarm
Of climbing upon me, of using her charm
To get me to hold her, a warm little star.
Gone is the rumbling of rest in my arms.
Gone is a child of a sweetness so rare
That she got those who'd hate her to actually care.