i guess we don’t say happy birthday to each other anymore.
two years ago i watched you jump into a cold river in the catskills,
you said the water felt fine.
it was your thirtieth birthday.
i watched the video over and over
your body plunging into the water,
it made me feel so rocky.
i had an urge to confess something, but i wasn’t sure what.
you, like all men, refused to acknowledge you had done anything wrong
it was my fault
for getting attached
“i told you i was leaving,” you said,
and even in my empty house
it seemed illogical to fuck “one last time”
with the cast on your arm
from your bicycle accident that happened the day after you told me for the first time,
as i lay naked and teary-eyed in the midnight cathedral of your bed,
that we were not “we”.
In the morning i took the bus to 24th and Mission
to walk uphill to my apartment in the castro, where i passed a spray painted stencil on the cement,
“i wish you missed me”.
and two years later, today, i see on instagram that it’s your birthday again
you’re spending it in an airstream in the woods of LA with your girlfriend
(who is beautiful)
but somehow i don’t hate her
and somehow i don’t hate you.
that’s what it is, isn’t it?
“getting over” someone?
the peace of feeling nothing.