It feels like my birthday
when I’m with you
under all the blue–
the sky between leaves,
the safety of your jean jacket.
This writing date is one
I’ve always dreamed of subconsciously.
You have a way of meeting my unspoken needs,
to write, to create,
to see the tide come in
and the moon rise slowly,
sometimes surprising us.
Like that time it was bright orange,
lower in the sky than usual.
Nothing here is unusual,
and yet it feels like a fantasy.
Crickets and birds sing.
We lay in picnic style,
on your white blanket,
pens in hand.
We are manifesting our stories
as we write them down.
If I could choose
a birthday it
would be a day
just like this–
cool enough for a hoodie
and warm enough
to be writing
with my love in the park
by the light of the sky above.
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