The clock strikes midnight and it’s officially the thirteenth day of the eleventh month. Happy fucking birthday to me, I’m finally twenty-two. Double matching digits to satisfy my need for symmetry, this year is bound to be a good one.
Still, I wish my parents named me November or Poppy.
I predicted how I would spend my birthday. I’d be sat writing by my quiet self and here we are. I’m catching stars with nets wound onto the ends of my fingers and hoarding them in the basement I don’t have. When I need a wish I pluck the brightest from the galaxy and throw it with my dominant hand out into the sky. Close my eyes tight and whisper to myself
But I won’t tell you what I wish because then it wouldn’t come true. I can only tell one soul, that’s the rules.
I find myself plunging my arm into the basement every night and the once vast collection of stars is dwindling fast. I’m wishing my heart right out of my mouth, I’m lost and alone and I’m only twenty-two.
I am about a fifth of the way to where I wanna be and I figure that if I live to one hundred then that’s not so bad. Even if I only live to fifty-two, that’s another thirty years to put the other four parts of my puzzle together. I’m sure that’s enough time.
I could die tomorrow.
And I’d still only be a fifth of the way to where I wanna be.
I’ve got five ultimate goals in life, I’ll be keeping those to myself but let’s just say it’s an uphill battle. I’m not particularly good at anything and I’m really just trying to stand up and walk around every day without falling over.
It’s hard to massage the stress out of someone else’s scalp when my fingers keep locking and the pain makes me wince.
So far, I’ve spent my birthday with my computer hoping to hear from you. Thinking that you said you could never forget my birthday because I share it with a friend of yours.
I’ve been reading you again and I’m beginning to remember quotes from your works. I could survive solely off your literature, I only wish you were able to read it aloud to me.
I’ve been thinking for a long time about how the only way you’ve ever touched me is through writing. While that is the single most beautiful gift, we’ve had the longest time just for words, I am starting to long for the tickle of your breath against my skin as you speak unrehearsed phrases and laugh at my bad jokes.
Aren’t you beginning to wonder what sounds emit from my being? For example:
the two silver bracelets I never take off jingle when I wash my hair, bring my hand to my mouth when I yawn, turn a page or stir a pot while I am cooking,
the skirts I constantly wear swish and swoosh about my pins as I walk with a rather feminine gait,
or how my hysterical fits of laughter crow and ring out, piercing ear drums and rattling bone china cabinets.
I seem to be getting lost in shooting stars and time all over again.
Happy birthday, to me.
This year will be sensational.