birthdays
Birthdays are something to celebrate to most. A year of living. You made it through hardship, lessons, the passage of time. But for the sad, and isolated, it serves as a reminder that years of torturous existence are ahead.
The latter describes myself. And I'd like to talk about my 23rd birthday 438 days ago. I've never thought to celebrate my birthday really. Never had a birthday cake, never had it formally celebrated, but I do remember the ones who try to celebrate it for me. On that particular birthday, I gave the woman I met 21 days prior gifts. She was so bewildered. Gifts on my birthday? Why would I do such a thing? But materially, I never felt I needed anything. It was the gestures of gifts and effort that made things special for me. And the gesture that she would remember and give her time and effort throughout the 21 days she constantly stayed up to talk to me, to comfort me, and to call me was a gift in itself. More than I could've asked for as a man. For I have never asked for anything more than a person's love. And that was what I got.
I sit here now. 438 days later. And although we choose to be apart, and even choose to be with others, I still hold love. I still feel. For she is not so far away from me, but a warmth in my chest.