109. January 19th.

Tomorrow is your birthday.

Last year we traveled,
had a hotel room in Washington D.C.,
you let me have the window seat on the plane.
The year before, I woke up at 5am
and covered our apartment
in small notes. On the bathroom mirror,
in the shower, in the coffee jar.
Your car too, although it had snowed
the night before, and your windshield wipers
were frozen solid. The year before that
I had just realized that you were wonderful
and made you a CD of my favorite songs
(and you say that things
were never simple).

You will be twenty-eight. It's true, you know,
that you begin to come into yourself
as you approach thirty. You'll see.

Tomorrow is your birthday.
I will give you only my thoughts.

I no longer want to count the weeks
that I've been without you.
As each passes, cells in my body die off
and are replaced by ones that have never felt
your touch, your breath, the vibrations of your voice.
Eventually I will be brand new.
Perhaps clean.

Tomorrow is your birthday. I miss you very much.