Birthdays
should be marked
by cake and ice cream,
Instagram posts and Facebook wishes
Or texts, the kind with hearts
And balloons
And silly memes
but
this time
next time
every time
I’d settle
for
anything
that fills the absence.
I draft and scribble out poems in my head:
a catalog of today’s distractions
our conversation in the sun today
the four times I cried
(frustration, grief, happiness, gratitude)
how I wonder if other people
get to talk to those
long-gone, or not-so-long-gone,
or if I am lucky
or just weird
how dumb it is to depend on words anyway –
the arrogance of insisting
life can always be willed
into poem.
Soapbox: The Way I see Things 
This poem holds so many emotion-filled words that I do not know what words to say.
This stanza is sooo powerful…
but
this time
next time
every time
I read yesterday’s poem today, and I can clearly see Jess is wrapped into your heart. Hugs.
Thanks. It means the world. ❤
“…the arrogance of insisting
life can always be willed
into poem.”
With the knowledge of yesterday’s poem, I understand this one. We are writers, it is indeed our arrogance and our penance, our hubris and yet also our therapeutic condolence. I feel these words are doing a little bit of that for you.
You GET me. Thank you. Your words mean the world.
May you know peace this day.
Thanks. I eventually got there.
For that I’m thankful.
So, so powerful. Really hope you’ve found peace.
Thank you. I was able to come to some peace, thank you.