news of your birthday is the best thing to hear.
a concrete reminder to me that you're still there,
no matter what. your presence is strange, queer,
but always saves me from endless despair.

news on your birthday is especially sweet.
the good puts a smile like no other on my face,
the bad does little to make me silently weep.
anything tainted with you is the happiest place.

news from your birthday is wonderfully melancholic
like when you hear a baby's recovered from colic.
i wasn't there, but that's ok.
i should've been there. to be ok.

news after your birthday is dull as dishwater
like winning tickets for a concert of the band daughters.
i had to finagle that line to work...
a life without you is a life berserk.

new soul for your birthday. new soul
for mine. you wouldn't gift me that.
it would be something decidedly gauche
like a taxidermied wombat.

“new's old, your birthday!” i thought to myself.
i haven't heard your voice in a while.
the last time i went through this drought,
i was able to live through it. breathe through it.

when i think of you now, i start breathing manually.
you've mutilated me with your eternal smile.
you were my iron lung, and i was your carrier bag.
anachronistically eternal, until one of us starts to sag.