It could have been a Thursday, 
Wednesday, Friday, who cares;
It could have been one more day
on top of many others, piled like pizza boxes,
empty ones, tottering, reaching for the ceiling 
(the highest point, 
not in absolutes but rather in what we dare
to dream for ourselves).
It could have been the end of something;
or maybe a beginning - 
(aren't they the same?)
- I'm not sure about any of that, 
because being godawfully tired is so sewn
into the fabric of who we are
that we think longingly of the second
our heads hit the pillow rather than
the second our eyes open 
to take in the blaze 
of an impatient new day. 
But that day was my birthday.
I remember it well.
There was so much good 
on that day, I think; jokes, wishes,
sincere grins?
Then why is it 
I can only remember
holding my phone, cold, metallic,
my damp nape shivering 
against the winter breeze,
reading the words 
"I already ate"
as a hard stone formed
in the place where hunger
should have been.
All I remember
is the bitter cumin,
the plastic orange chair,
the fried oil film on my lips,
unkissed, unwished, unwanted.