It’s your birthday! It’s hard. Every new year breeds the hope that we mend our dysfunctional ways. But, like magic another reminder hits the fold — and we are forced to reconcile another slot in out failure to reconvene.
You hate me and I know it.
The why is the virus that hinders the vaccine from saving us. It’s too layered and multiplied to equal anything other than grief. A sadness for the times shared and unshared.
When you arrived I was already built. This may have delayed our growth but there was hope despite the jarring gap between us.
You were never made to understand the masters that command my movement beyond your grasp.
The day I failed you was when we died.
I let go and you fell into the shade of your making because you knew I would eventually storm you.
I won’t torment you with apologetic renderings or bore you with the ballad of my discontent. I won’t convince you of how much you could love me if you wanted to really know me. I won’t play against the netting of your frustration that is borne from valid ground.
I won’t force you to wonder what life would be like if I were around.
I won’t beg you to hear me say that your birthday is the only day that you don’t hate me.
I already know and it’s our gift to you.