eleven

it has been
eleven of
your birthdays
in which
we have not
spoken at all

part of me
wishes
that i could
just forget
the date
strike it from
my mental
calender

but something
always seems
to find a way
to remind me

between dad
dying
and you
might as well
having done
the same
it is less
bittersweet
this orphaned
exposition
and just
bitter

one of these
forced remembrances
i imagine
you will be
actually gone
and i wonder
when i stare
at the ceiling
in the middle
of the night
if either of us
will regret
the way
an already mishandled
broken bond
was left ignored
thought of once
a year on
your birthday

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