i am no fortune-teller but i always
fuse my sanity with anticipatory grief.
this is no magic, but to say
“i already knew”, “somehow, i expected it”
is a comforting script for my love’s
trajectory.

so even in the middle of the night,
while i load my clothes on the laundry machine, when i fix the messy table
from an all-night review,
during my silent walk to the cloud,
in the bath, as i eat and breathe and
live on my own, i would utter in
my mind like a ghost leaving my throat:

“i miss you” for the days we have fallen
back in silence; “congratulations”
for all your victories i won’t be able to celebrate; “take care” for your
travels i will not know about; “good luck”
for the things you will bravely do;
“i love you” for the years ahead where i will not feel it anymore; “thank you” for all your
warm gestures i am only left remembering;
“happy birthday” for your rebirths
that will be unbeknownst to me.

i fear i have been holding onto you
only for my grip to end up a muscle memory;
for my love to wither politely and silently in
tiny increments; for my grief to send postcards into my doorstep—
one mail at a time.
only to remind me to rehearse my sorrow,
write script for my heartbreak,
choreograph my departure, design the right
falling into silence; my numbing and losing.

happy birthday, just in case my prophecy crystallizes, and i won’t be around next year.