I wish you could see yourself from behind my lenses.
I don't care how confused you are. I don't care how lost or found or wandering you think you are. You are right here, right now, and so am I. Jesus, the lighting is perfect. I love how it cuts you up and slaps you back together. It makes you look like, well, unordinary. And you aren't, but it makes you look the part.
I love the way you feel -- all the ways you mold yourself to fit your idea of beauty. In all your trying, you've managed to produce something conducive to holding and leaning and walking next to and wanting. And I like how your emotions are bottled and fluid and sometimes, when they spill over and I'm there to wipe them off the table, I get to see glimpses of what you're really like. God, you make me smile.
I hate how even when you do nothing, you are unordinary. I hate it. I hate you. Because it isn't fair for me, and it's not good, and I don't want to have to deal with you. But I do anyway. Could you please ruffle your hair more, thanks.
I don't know, I guess I just wish you would see that you are interesting and lovely and created for greatness -- I mean, I guess everyone is, but I think you could really do something. You matter so much to such a vast class of people. And to me.
I know there is nothing to chase after or create or revive or anything. I know that there is nothing; and that's okay. It just hurts sometimes even though I really wish it didn't. I know it's my fault. I'm sorry; but at the same time I guess, I don't mind, because the pain of having you is better than the pain of not.
This is just to say, um, I wish I got you something.
Happy Birthday.
