one for you on your birthday
as it was not so long ago when it was special, your birthday, not only for you but for me too, as special as my birthday, but maybe even more for it did not carry the akwardness of being the center of attention, not realized in actuality but as the sad expectation to be so, only to be forgotten by this or that friend, my father probably, and in the later stages even you. the self in the birthday always dissapoints. but not on your birdthay, because then it was not the birthday of someone i never knew how to love (me), but of someone i could actually love (you)
harry potter cake
preparing the costumes
visitng family
and trying to make it special, on your birthday, little presents like i cannot remember how many, and notes and cards and the trip to shotland, and turning 25 26 27 28 29, did we make it to 30, as if these years meant something but the strenghtening of a connection that now means nothing to you, and only means sadness to me.
as getting a limb cut off
did the mother regret having the child after seeing it die?
is the depth of reality worth the trouble?
is it better to be comfortably numb, soma and orgy porgy like the brave new world idiots? is the depth of emotion what makes life worth it, slings and arrows and whatever?
do we wish we'd never met?
heard the last names in class or hung out and gone to the playground at night, and talked about music, the mk ultra music you still liked and i no longer care for, and made so many jokes, as if existence was just inherently funny
yes, being in love made life worthwhile. and the jokes you made and how little you cared about most people finding you cranky. 
at some point, the bullying remained but the accompaning care and playfulness just turned rarer
by the end, i had more the impression i was too someone you hated
and so it went, as fast as it began, 
away away
the only period of my life when living felt natural