The time you spent
pouring oil onto the lamp
to keep your senses awake is recognized.
I marked everything you have ever spoken
and you should be assured
that your silence will be noticed.
And it is indeed noticed,
for every step and breath I take,
echoes inside the emptiness left within me.
You have left me desolate,
aside from dreams of holding sweaty hands
and voicing unspoken words.
I have parted through patterns,
trying to surface with some excuse,
for why we shouldn't end this way.
But these sweaty hands are empty
and all I can offer to you
is blessings on your birthday.