Turning 33

How can life stay unmoving for so long -

stubborn, almost defiant -

and then suddenly be overwhelmed

by unfamiliar feeling and change?

At times like this,

I can only follow what my heart tells me.

It’s your birthday this week,

and with it came a rush of memories -

your hand closing around mine.

I used to believe I would meet the past calmly,

that I would surprise myself

with how composed I could be,

how quietly strong,

even as I barely held myself together.

I hear everything even when nothing is said.

You were the one who came closest to me.

I wish you could see me now,

wandering without direction,

writing in an attempt to ease the hurt -

though writing doesn’t fully release it.

I have always loved you.

I still miss you in quiet

When you notice birds resting 

or feel air move through your room,

I hope you remember

that you, too, have been carrying grief.

Think of our hands -

like small creatures learning each other in secret,

reaching, climbing,

one lifted by air, the other by music

When I think of you, water softensband gleams.

Fire quiets itself

without being extinguished.

All the libraries behind our eyes open

Near you, my thoughts want to enter your mind -

a place of worn reflections.

When you breathe, something new takes form,

as if scattered parts of the sea

are joining again.

This is why I write now

Because I love you.

Because that love remains.

Sometimes without sensibilities

You were always the safe place,

I was always the signal.

You were the still structure;

I was the moving air.

Of you, I carry myself,

and perhaps the shared dreams

within me, buried in me now.

Of you, I remember our yesterday's youth,

turned toward what had not yet arrived,

toward hoping and living

Of you, memory comes sharply 

Here is the earth.

Here are the birds.

Here is the old world that held us.

A door made of screen,

with wind passing through.

That is what remains with me.

Even now, our hands remember their own gravity,

without clinging.

A screen door opening outward,

toward something bright and almost unimaginable.

The wind carries nothing but itself.

My hand in yours,

just last year.

Happy birthday, you