It’s my birthday, she said , to no one there
She didn’t care she had no one to share it with. She lit a candle, and blew out the flame.
A shame to waste it, she thought
and wondered why she’d even bought it.
It was supposed to smell of a summer breeze of lilies, and leaves on suburban trees.
But it didn’t.
It just smelt of melting wax,
of burning, and endless yearning.
It’s my birthday , she said, I’m supposed to be happy.
But the cake was stale, and the icing hard
There was no arrival of a birthday card.
Another year older, another year colder.
Another year past, more empty than the last. Then she unwrapped a gift, she needed no other And scattered the confetti’d ashes of her lover.
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