It was the 50th year. The 50th year and I suddenly had nothing to say. There's so much of a yearning for that person that is you, speaks to you without saying words, that has you all figured out without you having to explain, that figures out the flaws, the wrinkles and the jiggly bits and is ready to accept and love and embrace them as just you.
In the 50th year, I found me wanting that so much that I couldn't stop, even stop, for a brief moment to acknowledge that that You I've been searching for among the nameless faceless character deficient faces, that You was with me for the 50th year. And for the 50th year I really should have just said, it's still him that is in me and for the 50th year it is more apparent than I care to acknowledge. It is the 50th year and I'm glad and content knowing You are there. I hope he's glad knowing I am, too.
In the 50th year, I found me wanting that so much that I couldn't stop, even stop, for a brief moment to acknowledge that that You I've been searching for among the nameless faceless character deficient faces, that You was with me for the 50th year. And for the 50th year I really should have just said, it's still him that is in me and for the 50th year it is more apparent than I care to acknowledge. It is the 50th year and I'm glad and content knowing You are there. I hope he's glad knowing I am, too.
Happy Birthday to an obsession that gets better with age.
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