A History of Birthdays

I have a memory of a radio playing Simon and Garfunkel in the early morning, as a heavy fog rolled in. It is vague and faded, like your smile is now. That big round Irish face looking down on me in a lover's haze.

I remember you sitting on the bed next to me and drawing shapes on my chest with your index finger. You said, in a sing-song voice deepened by exhaustion and influenza, "it's somebody's birthday soon". I smiled and looked up at the ceiling and played dumb.

"I wonder who that could be".

"Are we doing anything special?"

"You'll see".

Mango ice cream and chocolate cake on your porch in the sun, the smell of candle wax and whiskey lingering in the air. You turn to me and say "thank you".

Chapped Lips Quoting Shakespeare

The corpse of yesterday's newspaper rots
in the wet gutter below me.

Your bike is still parked in front of his house,
the one with police tape around the porch.

A pretty girl walks by and smiles at me
but I ignore her, she's not you.

My favorite sweatshirt has paint on it now,
from trying to make you a housewarming present.

A group of men sit in a van parked in front of a halfway house
and it's obvious they are going on a trip together.

I just hope you are happy now, with him or alone,
wherever you are.