Cokes For Lack Of Better Cake

You don’t know it
but you sounded off your birthday
of two decades and two years
with a Coke can popping in the light
of our refrigerator door

and that made me love you more.
And think of the holes in your eyes
where the world seeps through
and translates to your brain
what makes a person a person--
what makes a person good.

It made me fold into your chest,
crumpled as the receipts on the sticky
floorboards of your car

it made me think of eyelids and sleeping
and noises we’ll never know we make

it made me love you.

So I thought of birthdays
the anniversary of the days not spent dying
the astonishment we’ve felt as a civilization for centuries
that we could inhabit the earth for so long

and so I thought of you
tiny, crumpled like me in your chest
dreaming, dying, and I wonder
what woke you up

a sound so quick, as a Coke can pop,
“Not yet.”

What kept you coming back, to have another
today? What can make a person good
except living?

B E C A U S E I M N O T A W K W A R D

I couldn't just say, "Happy Birthday." I couldn't. The editor of the paper I so very much would like to be on, Samantha, happens to have a birthday today. I knew it was coming. And that I should prepare. Because I know me, and I just knew I would do something like this. Something would freak me out and I would over think and say, well, I can't just say it like everyone else.
I mean, you know, there's facebook. The poking and the messages and the, "Ohmygod, haven't seen you in forever, call me!" Then there is the birthday. The one day that everyone writes on your wall. Your perverted uncle, your ex's new girlfriend, your chemestry teacher, everyone. Well, I did not want to be the teacher, or the uncle, or god the girlfriend. So what did my little brain say to do? Research.
So sitting here in this hotel room I type: Why do we celebrate birthdays?
And I mean of course Google has the answer and it really is a fun read so Google it sometime (one guy was like, cause it's FUN! Duh!).
As it turns out, it's interesting. Yeah, okay, I could have said that too. Not what I did. I wrote her an article on birthdays, basically. I put a stocking over my face and hid under her porch. I am a creeper. (I was exaggerating, I would never go under any porch it's too dark!)
---
So I do this:
I'm going to join in with the rest of the world of facebook and tell you, "happy birthday." You know, birthdays are the longest tradition of celebration in history, and when calendars were pretty much just the sky people would notice that when the sun and moon lined up the way the were the day a person was born it brought them good luck. "Good luck" meaning something like finding a sheep or having good health. So I guess the nut shell version of this would be, "I hope you find a sheep today, or something of this century's equivalence."
---
Terrible, right? And it gets worse. It's too long for a normal text box.
This is me just moaning and rolling into a hole in the earth. (Again, too dark.)
So I say you know geez, just post it. So I do, I look at it, and it's cut off. There's that little "see more." Button. FML.
I'm so embarassed. I really am. Like, I don't know how to act. And I just want to be cool. But, I don't know how at all. And I'm just unsure and worried she's going to think I'm just the lamest thing of all time. I mean,it's been said that I'm not, but I have my doubts. I watch Buffy, I read Twilight. Oh the shame. Oh the agony.
Guys, I'm worried. I could remove it, but then what? What does that say about me?
I'm ignoring that it ever happened.
I have to be out of here by twelve. Then I have to go do anything until 3, when Daniel finishes orientalationing.
I just want to sleep all day. Not even an option.