Maybe you’ll wake up Sunday with a tired mind and nowhere to be,
but then you’ll glance at the calendar and remember me.
You’ll remember that there was something you were meant to do;
there was someone you were meant to see.
Every broken piece of me is hoping you’ll call
Hoping you’ll explain why you made a mess of it all.
but you won’t.
You’ll see my name with that ‘happy birthday’
and you’ll briefly remember your own,
and how I was there.
I’ll be missing you,
but you won’t really care.
You’ll walk around all day
a little agitated
because there will be a loud weight on your shoulder:
(it’s usually quiet, but today it’s all you can do to stop the ringing in your ears).
You’ll see the snow falling and shiver
~the thought of me~
You’ll put your playlist on shuffle and hear that one song
~the sound of me~
You’ll follow the curly blonde hair rounding the corner
~the wish for me~
every little thing
will make you think of me,
but you won’t do anything.
You won’t do anything until you’re four shots deep
scrolling through my photos.
until you’re stumbling home to your dorm late at night
and the familiar scene makes you forget
that you never loved me.
and your phone is pressed against your cheek,
just as mine rings,
but for the first time,
I don’t pick up.
and all you can manage to say to the answering machine
is ‘happy birthday.’
but I’ll never hear it;
my voicemail is full
and my heart grew tired of waiting for you to call
a long time ago.