Your birthday is this Sunday,
how ironic that it lands on a holy day when I can only refer to you as satan.
I've always been bad at numbers
but your birthday is always one I'll know by heart.
It's almost as if you wrote it there,
or carved it in with that pocket knife you kept by your bed stand,
right next to where I'd leave my earrings when we'd get in bed.
We had planned so many birthdays in advance that when this time comes around I almost feel like I'm late,
there's something I'm supposed to be doing but can't quite remember.
The time changes on your birthday this year,
that's a bit ironic too.
The days grow longer on your birthday, the sun shines stronger, a small twinkle of happiness is dusted onto everyone and we can finally start thawing from the winter.
The irony in that is,
time for me will forever seem frozen.
I will always have the image of you walking away with someone else by your side embedded in my mind.
Almost as if you played the tape endlessly for me,
or forced me to relive it like Groundhog day.
So although another year has gone by,
I still sit and suffer in silence,
in silent sobs,
silent memories,
silent wishes that we could relive the love we had that engulfed us both.
I will go another year,
and hopefully every year from now on,
with only silence between us.
