On Your Birthday
When I say I’m retching for you, it’s a good thing. Like the earth vomiting winter, so we can have disc golf weather in the spring. Like your tiny garden out front killing itself to live. That’s me. When I say I’m reaching for you, it’s a good thing. Sometimes, I open your door while you sleep and listen to you breathe the night in and out. I can’t see you, so it’s not creepy. The visuals in my life are sometimes too much to bear. All the fleshy beauty, the words, the baked goods on the counter. When I say I’m wrestling myself, it’s a good thing. Like I’m shouting at the mirror, the one with the I’M NOT WORRIED sticker at the top. Like I’m saying GET IT TOGETHER MAN. Sara, it’s your birthday, and you are not here. But you are somewhere. When I say I’m whistling your name, it’s a good thing. Like please come home. Like YOU’RE REAL COOL.