August 30, 1972

A poem of unrequited admiration dedicated to the best person who has ever lived.

I don't remember all of their birthdays now

The pious preparations and pageantries

Some altruistic, most self-serving

Often masochistic

Champagne, flowers, poetry, and chocolates

Hackneyed, arranged just so

And energies spent to stage the surprises?

Rarely answered with the elation sought.

—

I don't remember all of their birthdays now

They were once so important

Candlelit dinners, calligraphy on desserts

The cinematography of passion in bloom

My signature move was hand to lower back

And a whispered "I love you"

Awestruck diners gawking, unknowingly,

At relationship postmortem's eve.

—

I don't remember all of their birthdays now

And they don't recall mine.

—

But I do remember one

And sadly that knowledge matters not;

We may never celebrate anything together

Yet Tennyson’s sanguine encouragement tempts me still…

Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come,

whispering ‘it will be happier.’