Candles that burn even when the wind sways this way and that without direction or the strength to withhold the stagnancy of time — even when the bell tolls.
The birth date is recorded and logged without consent, but the climax of accumulated years are slathered on skin like the oils from a cocoa butter bath — that allows the steam from the shower to seal the deal.
It’s not hard when you stand in front of the mirror and admire the aged evidence — like the fine wine waiting for you across the way. Before you partake of the reward — you must get drunk on the days you’ve lived and the ones remaining.
It’s amazing how we keep going as if ants will carry us up the hill when the light in our eyes glaze over from the shadow of the sun
In this glorious moment of wondering how another year older will somehow become special with tons of effort and prayers, I must ask how I got here — and managed to remain securely fastened despite the threat of open spaces and jawing pot holes.
A birthday contains the lessons that lately have become more like a stick shift that requires the active groove in order to guarantee horizon of the destination.
Are we there yet?
No, not quite. I’m glistening under the rays of the Miami sun that told me a secret years ago that I won’t divulge because arrested splendor needs to stay exactly so.
What’s in a birthday when the years to come are suggestive and weird.
I’m calm under the spotlight that approaches with method and recognition. Even as I wish I could scream with joy and squat in lust for the numbers to change — I can’t open the box that bears my name.
I already know what’s inside. It’s the always-forever surprise.