XLVII.

I've been driving by the place that I was falling about fourteen times a week.
We both fell hard on that maroon painted tin roof that idealizes salient but bleak.
Occasionally I'll remember times we had, but memories are always bleared.
T.V. shows and strawberry daiquiris two-thousand five new years.
I've been more grateful for this March than any other year gone by.
March 16 is always the day you think about when you will die.
Happy birthday to you Chelsey, in true American bland and boring convention.
Modernism is the style in this concrete jungle built from man's intention.
I never meant for anything less than what was due and deserved.
Some times I should have expended, but instead I just conserved.
If you will watch the ebb and flow of people in the middle of their stride.
You'll see they're nothing more than the summation of memories kept alive.
Contrary to popular belief when I think of you it doesn't accompany regret.
But rather a lesson learned of love and bright eyes from a friend I'm glad I met.
So once again Happy Birthday, I know this is inadequate of what you deserve.
But I love you just enough to believe you just might appreciate my verve.