It’s my birthday today –
And no, not 1904;
And though I wish it were true
I rue nothing that has happened to me.
And I have loved and lost and loved and lost,
And loved, lost, loved and lost;
And I have learnt to my cost
The violence of awful jealousy,
And the impatience of those –
Exactly like myself –
Who see time in so many
Where corporalities are beyond our keeping
And the humbling nature of meeking our ambitions
Makes us sad and dreadful melancholic all told.
And the alcoholic instinct, resident like creature bold,
Sitting in basement dark,
Ready to spring forth,
And thrice and twice, and then once
Reminds me that my obsession to truly love
In this whirled of such grand
Has left me with only one person in mind;
And though clearly for her it is so terribly trying,
I never shall dare to forget my dearest Claire.