it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead
i still don’t know what
to do with that,
so i get up when my alarm
goes off and make coffee
there’s a hole in the heel
of one sock, in the toe of
another, and it’s a shock
when the cold wooden floor
hits my skin, still sleep-warm
and i could darn the socks,
though i’m only pretending to
know how, or simply throw them away,
but it feels like i wore those socks
the last time we breathed the
same air, yanno
i’m not looking for metaphors
or signs this time, injecting meaning
where there isn’t any
you’re not the bird at my
window, because i left some cashews
and walnuts on the sill
and that’s not really you,
standing on the corner as the
bus passed, but i thought that it
was for a split second and had to
stop myself from pulling the cord,
jumping off and calling a stranger
by your name
but i wore the same corduroy pants
and black vest with the gold swirls
as the same day we met, when i
no-showed that one time, and still
haven’t fully forgiven myself for it,
though i’d like to think that you would,
that you could
and it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead
and i keep meaning to bake you
a cake, and i’m sorry
that i haven’t yet