Lips that flip and hair that stuns leaves you wooed.
She could care less, the careless wanderer
of love-worlds. This is her day and she’s more
goddess than human here,
and now you notice how the lamps turn her hair
into halo; how her face profiles perfectly; how
deep you are into herself. It defies grammar how
she greets and meets your friends and family;
there: they’re stricken with a presence that needs
no introduction. Beats me how you’ve survived.
Maybe her gaze is a drug and you’re an addict.
Maybe she’ll mark you for life and then fly off.
I lasted 9 months roughly, more alive than never.
Happy birthday, Lovely; we’re still birds of a feather.