Like it’s not your birthday.

You thought I’d forget didn’t you? Only if it weren’t so easy. I awoke this morning, and unfortunately enough that was the first thought that popped into my head. You. You and it being your birthday.

25 years old.

Eyes still blue.

Hair still too long.

Smile as anxious and freakishly adorable as ever.

Clothes. Well, slightly overwhelming for the mellowness of your personality.

I don’t know what it is about you, but I always find myself back at the point from which I try to leave. The point where I am in love with every aspect of your being, for you are the moon and I the stars.

You thought I’d forget your birthday?

No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I remembered it as well as I remember the slightness in your nose, the curve of your lip when curious fingers touch it, the words that you once breathed in my ear. I remember it because I remember you. Because despite my attempts to forget, you are burned into the hollows of my mind like flames into a tree of a fire past. Your ghost still caresses my skin, still leaves trails of kisses on my lips.

I couldn’t forget your birthday. As it’s impossible to forget you.

Happy Birthday, Dear Johnny. I hope it’s as splendid as you are.