I’d greet you happy birthday today, if we had only stayed friends, if I knew my words could trail something more than silence.
I’ll write, anyway. I will write about what came to pass, and what we came to lose, and I will remember, until I am finally bored with remembering, until I could no longer even describe your eyes, the way they gazed.
My memory, love, is fickle. It shouldn’t take too long.