We celebrate my beautiful man’s birthday today.
I wrote this poem when we first met.
I haven’t changed my mind on any of it.
Happy birthday, my love.
He’s quite the badass.
He’s a rebel and he’s the too cool for school.
He’s behind the crowd, he’s the slow walker, he’s the leader of the pack without trying to be.
He’s the sage and the delinquent in one.
He’s the joker, the enigma, the shadow, and then also the ray that seeps in slowly, ever so slowly, before blasting up the room.
Oh, the ever present, Sun. The Son.
He walks into a space and, “All Hail Caesar!”
But he doesn’t like that.
Maybe he doesn’t hear it?
Could be that he tries to ignore it.
I mean, come on, it’s only natural.
Stupid me, should’ve known.
He doesn’t try. He allows all to just be.
He wants to be my Savior, the good spirit in my life, but then he also drags down the rose-colored curtains.
Shoves my face closer to the ever complicated, but neatly organized, brightly-colored (never grays or lights!) and intricate onion-skins, of life.
“Look deep,” he asks of me.
Demands of me.
Softly. Kindly. Delicately.
He’s quite the spirit, keeps me on my toes.
Keeps me thinking and reflecting, and then questioning, and then doubting, and then pondering, and then questioning, and then asking, and then thinking again.
His presence wafts in without your notice.
You inhale him long enough to gain shape of his recognition.
And then BOOM.
Like, that —