I believe that the words written specially
for a special day
are disingenuous and — ironically — non-special;
because if the words are plants
that grow in their moment and time,
then I am a child who cries
demanding the nature to give a miracle,
and to turn my chocolate milk into blue one.
I believe that my words are especially non-special
because I am ready
to say them every day,
even the most mediocre day,
all three hundred sixty-four other days,
not only the very special one,
and I will have no words more sincere
than what I have right here and now.
So please, just imagine
that here I say all my words about you,
and about three hundred ninety-two days we spent together,
watching the films and moving slightly towards each other
to touch tenderly each other’s shoulder;
walking twenty-something kilometers in the cities we love mutually,
cuddling and whispering in darkness,
or waiting for a blink of a message in daylight,
on the other side of the world,
separated with a prime meridian.
Just imagine me
putting your gel on my face
because that’s how you smelt after you’d shaved
when I was still sleeping
and when I woke up of the morning sex;
putting your shampoo on my hair
because that’s what I felt before falling asleep
in your arms,
and this is what helps me endure the distance.
Probably, the whole poem
is a substitute
for some other more special words,
because they still aren’t ripe
until we touch each other again,
and who I am to pick them ahead of time.
But actually, this is a timid
‘happy birthday’,
and a vast and talky
‘thank you’