Pretty soon we'll be older. That's how it works of course. Thirty at the end of July. Mine before yours. One day and two years if I remember correctly. A few years of space chronologically. Much more when measured otherwise. The month with the most light and the longest days and the waves of unforgiving heat. It never stayed long enough to satiate. Soon you'd be married. You never said it but I knew. We knew. I could feel it when we saw each other. The way she looks at you. It’s easy right? Linear and tangible. Mathematical. Your brain works in equations. Or perhaps more so in between the lines. Home by ten. Does it feel good? I don’t wonder as much as it sounds. How often is sometimes? I doubt she'll ever know the thoughts you've kept. Better for her not to know I suppose. There's a saying or a cliché that fits nicely here. I would say they're safe with me but I don't think I mean it anymore. I've been breaking off bits and pieces of the stories I wrote. Lining them up in a row. Binding a few. Burning the rest. I’m making sure they last me six weeks or so. Lighting them up and watching them fade to ash. Enough for a smoke-filled room before the air clears. Happy birthday to me.
