I think of you when January comes around, even though it's the month of my birthday and not yours, because that was the last time that I ever wanted you, and yet for being the last time, it was so violent: so violent that I begged you to stay like a dagger was being held to my heart, then cursed you for leaving like you had dug my grave with your own hands, then heaved when you turned your back to me and heaved for so long that I gave your memory my innards.

I thought you would at least come back to say happy birthday.

I still dream of you, at the end of my really good days; a painful reminder that, maybe, you could make my really good days even better. But I know better than to entertain that thought for more than a few seconds. You were my first glimpse of heaven and my last fill of hell.