Carried Away With The Candle Smoke

Every birthday we shared
began and ended the same,
midnight finding us tangled in quiet,
a kiss pressed between yesterday and today,
my voice soft against your skin,
wishing you years I thought I’d be inside of.

I made my wish in the dark,
while the world held its breath,
and you saved yours for candlelight,
eyes closed, smiling,
like time had nowhere else to be
but wrapped around us.

This year arrived differently.

No countdown in your arms,
no stolen second at twelve,
no beginning or ending marked by us.
Just a bouquet of your favorite flowers,
a card that tried to say too much
with too little space.

Not much,
but something.
Something to prove my hands
still remember how to care.

I know I’m not the one anymore.
I know midnight will pass
without me holding you in it,
without my voice being the first
or the last thing you hear that day.

But still,
somewhere between the seconds,
I’ll be there in the quiet,
making the same wish I always did:

that you have many years to come…
even if none of them
have me in them again.