happy birthday to me...

dear baby from sixteen years ago, as an early or late present, a parcel of thruth, sixteen years later. you've grown to live through alot. one of the pained, restless, sometimes your eyes would cry out suicide while no tears would bless your cheeks. you learned to say sorry in the language of blood, relished in darkness and saw a crimson light. dear baby, know that you never stopped writing. never stopped drawing. never quit music. never forget that you are art, art is you, you were born of a song, will live in through poetry, die buried under paint and written avalanches of verse, in your own orchestral graveyard. dear baby, know that you fell to the bliss of love, child, you've learned to long for arms and lips, a face to rest your cheek to. and found one. he is far... away. but the wait for him keeps you alive longer. child, there is a real smile on your sixteen years later lips. an 'i love you' flows from those lips from time to time and life is perfect when bathing in his aura. it is nice getting a letter from sixteen years later, isn't it? nice to you know you're still breathing? i hope to get one too, maybe a year from now- i'll forward it to you so we know we've made it older. but child, today you are sixteen. one of those big steps we're surprised- quite surprised to see each other follow through. [birthday present to myself] Written January 30th, 2002 © on Jan 30 2002 01:02 PM PST, Sarah Bernard   0 • 10