you no longer call me on my birthdays
and i no longer greet you on holidays
but i love you from a distance as i choke with it,
like every deep breath suffocates my ribs
with the affection i can’t swallow,
a feeling buried six feet under
and so carefully behind my sleeves.

i grieve the living because i grieve you
but calendars don’t look the same every september
because there used to be a familiar name
that hogs even the tiniest space,
placed between our busiest days with glitter pens
and silly walmart stickers
and cheap polaroids of when you won the tetris game

i love others now aside from you
i just miss you now even more than i remember you
and the laughter shadowing your eyes.

i think of you fondly
but i no longer wait for a phone call that will never come,
and i no longer shake from the cold
with the absence of your favorite sky-blue sweater
and a witty tongue.

still, your birthday is marked.
using the same pen.
the same shade.
the same paper.
the same old calendar.
the same bed.

like a friend, your not-lover.
or a stranger.
a distant constant.

(here’s a secret: i think it will forever be.)

Editor’s Note: This article was first published in the Banaag Diwa 2025: Nasaag Literary Folio of Atenews.