38,880,000 seconds and counting.

Today is your birthday,
although I will make no calls,
send no texts,
offer no gifts.

I’d like to,
but we don’t talk anymore.

It’s been 450 days
or 10,800 hours
or 648,000 minutes
since we last spoke.

I can’t pretend to understand what happened.

Was it something I said?
Did I miss a critical social cue?
Did I do something to offend you?

Or was it simply time for us to end?

I still think back to the time we spent together:
the late night phone calls,
the conversations about boys,
the aimless strolls through the woods
where the alligator lady dwelt.

I still think back to photosynthesis.

Of course,
there were the arguments,
and the bickering,
and the accusations,
and …

I cannot deny these past 450 days have been less complicated,
less stressful,
generally easier
as result of your absence.

And yet, they’ve been all the more lonely.

Times are scary;
are you well?
We left off on a cliffhanger;
are you married now?
Did you finally get your own place?

Are you happy?
I hope so.

I really do.

In our last conversation
you lamented that I never seemed happy.
But look at me now!
I wish you were here to meet me —
the real me.

You never had a chance to meet Sage,
and that’s a shame.
(for both of us)
I think you would’ve liked her.

But maybe our separation was necessary for us to grow.
Maybe we needed to shed the past
to move forward in the present;
maybe we were just collateral.

I wish things ended differently.
I wish they never ended at all,
but I would’ve settled
for ending things on an amicable note.

Despite the biting words,
the hurt feelings,
the hole left in your wake;
despite everything,
I wish you well.

Happy birthday.