A birthday wish to BCO:
Thank you for teaching me to truly love myself.
Happy birthday, lover.
Lover, you are next to me when the stars wrap us in a cashmere blanket and pierce the black chill.
Lover, as my heart flies up my throat, you take this shaking hand like it is yours because it is, and it will be until those stars fall out of the black and the blue and splash into the ocean, one by one, like the loose buttons on your pea-coat.
Lover, your eyes are a Vancouver skyline at midnight. Forgetting them would be forgetting how to walk.
Lover, your lips. Your lips send my stomach to the moon your lips are Harry Potter magic.
Lover, your body is a map on the back of my hand; every scar, every muscle, the ink that lives in your skin, is all ingrained into my very existence.
Lover, you open up wide and swallow my tribulation.
Our experiences are daemons, tied to my soul with perpetual string.
Lover, these countless experiences are iron balls and chains shackled to my swiftly decomposing bones. These experiences enervate me. They cripple me they paralyze me they mutilate me they debilitate me.
These experiences are fucking me over infinitely.
Your life, spilling from your mouth in a valiant effort to avoid that awkward newness when we first met at that coffee shop.
Climbing fences to have our first shooting-star kiss in that secret Dali-like sculpture garden.
Filling our knowledge-hungry heads with the arts.
Bellowing genuine laughter until our faces and bellies pulse and tingle.
Crawling into each other’s overactive minds…
Lover, it has been ten months since you propelled me to tumble into this nothing. This well, this hole this empty void which I have been adamantly attempting to adapt with.
Lover my pillow is always damp.
Lover, your body has lived 24 years today yet your heart and soul were buried prematurely.
Lover on this day, I hope you receive a crucial gift which your otherwise-perfect self lacks: