I forget the name, the place
but never the breeze – nor the blaze of your eyes as I muttered something
that amused you.
Our cheeks quickened in colour – the heat of burning wood
and us, together
That scene, it sings your name
pursed lips that said I was stupid but you liked it
No sence remains. It’s your birthday and I’m shut up behind you, like all the ones before
Flickers of past, like old photographs
but we don’t dance in arms coiled like the strangers in pictures
though we bathe in their stagnant silence – having no words but walls, walls so tall that I no longer know how to reach you
To teach myself how to climb
And there’s so much that remains
Longing – lingering on the stonework
seeping quietly as buds of before blossom, murdering the very mortar of our seperation
providing hope for future flowers
It’s why I sit here, chisel in hand
It’s your birthday, again. I’m to blame and I miss you. Quietly.
Behind closed doors.