This seemingly endless cycle of wanting to move on, yet feeling guilty in the end and then tossing myself back into holding onto fragments of memories like a broken record stuck on a loop.
Funny thing, birthdays. They'll bring joy one moment at having lived yet another year. Then the next thing you know, they'll bring sorrow for having lived yet another year...especially when the only ones you celebrate it with are ghosts. Alright, not ghosts as in the plural...perhaps just one ghost.
I've always told people that I don't celebrate my birthday and that it's just like any other day, there's nothing special about it. What I could never bring myself to say to them was, and still is, that the last time we spoke was on my birthday. Your final words to me were wishing me a happy birthday.
Every year since then, I've sat by your side watching the sun's rise and set. This year, however, I missed it...thinking it would help me move on. All it helped me feel was even more guilt.
So, here goes.
Happy belated birthday, my love.
I miss you, dearly.